Being Gilderoy Lockhart
by JBean210
Summary: The author goes to sleep one night and wakes up the next morning to find he's become Gilderoy Lockhart! He doesn't know any magic, he's got no idea who's making breakfast downstairs, and Dumbledore is due at his door any moment now! Complete.
1. Chapter 1

I will say, right at the beginning of this tale, that what you're about to read will sound incredible, like some sort of dream. I would have to agree — in fact, if someone told it to _me_, I would suggest it _was_ a dream, or a hallucination.

But hallucinations and dreams don't persist for months, and the story I hereinafter tell took up the better part of a year of my life. When it was all over I spent days — weeks, in fact — trying to recall all the details of the eleven months my "dream" occupied. Finally, I began to set it down on paper so that others could read, and perhaps understand, something of what I went through.

The evening before my adventure began, I was reading _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_. I would periodically pick up different books in the series at random and read whatever page it fell open to. It was a great way to get a quick Harry Potter fix — I would read a few pages, then get on with whatever I'd been doing.

I was still reading Chamber of Secrets as I prepared for bed that night — I don't remember what part, exactly, but I had laid down and was still reading with interest, when suddenly, I felt very tired, as if all my energy had suddenly drained away. Yawning hugely, I laid the book on my chest and closed my eyes for a moment, meaning to take the book up again shortly. Of course, I should have known better, because within a minute or two I'd fallen fast asleep.

I awoke feeling confused and fuzzy, the way you sometimes feel when you've fallen asleep and wake up not knowing how much time has passed. I lay there for some time, feeling as if I was in a dream, then stretched, trying to shake out the cobwebs, and began to roll off the bed.

Something slid off my chest and over the side, and I remembered I'd been reading when I fell asleep. I reached instinctively to grab it, but missed, and watched the book slide off the bed onto the floor. I leaned over to grab it off the floor but saw it had bounced under the bed with a sharp _crack_. That was strange; the book was a paperback, so why did it make a cracking sound when it hit? Reaching down, I reached under the bed to find it, but felt nothing but carpet. I sighed; I would probably have to get up and crawl under the bed to get it! I started to move and realized why I'd probably awakened — my bladder was full. Deciding I would look when I came back from the bathroom, I slid off the edge of the and stood up —

— and froze, now completely disoriented, as I stared at a wall where the hallway to my bathroom should have been. Nearby was a large, ornate piece of furniture I recognized as a wardrobe. "What the —?" I blurted, but stopped again as I took in the rest of the room. Behind me was a magnificent four-poster bed, complete with canopy top and heavy curtains. Next to the bed stood a pair of matching nightstands, and against the opposite wall were a writing desk and a bookcase packed full of books. Pictures hung on every wall; there were several on the desk as well. All of them, as far as I could tell, were of the same person: a handsome, blond-haired fellow flashing a perfect smile. Light was streaming in from a window opposite the only door in the room, but there was nothing else beyond a few candles and some papers on the desk and a robe hanging on a stand near the door, with a tall, spindly table standing next to it.

Approaching the stand, I saw the robe on it was rather expensive-looking for a simple housecoat, but I couldn't imagine what other use someone might have for it — until I saw the piece of wood lying on the small table beside it.

I picked up the wood to examine it, and instantly realized what it was — a wand. A _wizard's_ wand. "Holy crap," I said aloud, in amazement. "I'm still dreaming!"

And that was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with at that moment. I'd just woken up, I thought, but I must really still be asleep. I turned back to the desk, looking for something that would confirm my suspicion. Seeing a piece of parchment stationery, I snatched it up and read the inscription across the top:

From the Desk of

**Gilderoy Lockhart**

Order of Merlin, Third Class

Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League

Five-Time Winner of **Witch Weekly's** Most Charming Smile Award

_Gilderoy Lockhart_? I'm dreaming about waking up in _Gilderoy Lockhart's_ bedroom? By now I was too amazed to even speak. I dropped the sheet of parchment back on the desk and wandered into the adjoining hallway, still looking for a bathroom I still had to use, dreading what I would find if I truly was where that sheet of stationery implied.

But everything was pretty much what one would expect in a regular person's — er, well, Muggle's — bathroom, though the vanity was a lot bigger than most men would need or want. I had another nasty shock as I saw "myself" in the oversized mirror hanging over the sink — the person staring back at me wasn't _me_ — and my hair was in curlers! But I'd recognized the person, nevertheless — his image had been in every picture hanging in the bedroom. I wasn't just dreaming about Gilderoy Lockhart — I WAS Gilderoy Lockhart!

The face staring back at me in the mirror wasn't the actor who'd portrayed Lockhart in the _Chamber of Secrets_ movie — this one was even _more_ perfect for the role than Kenneth Branagh had been. His eyes were the purest, clearest blue I'd ever seen, with a perfect nose and mouth. I smiled toothily, noting the double row of perfect, white teeth. The cheekbones and jaw were symmetrical, and the eyebrows had been carefully plucked and sculpted. Even though I couldn't see much of his hair under the curlers and hairnet, it knew it was a golden blond and shoulder-length, like Snape's — though I sincerely hoped it was better kept than his was! I stared into the mirror for over a minute, wondering how I was going to get all that junk out of my hair, and finally decided the first order of business was to empty my bladder and figure things out from there.

I stood in front of the mirror for some time afterwards, trying to make some kind of sense out of where I was and what had happened, if this somehow turned out _not_ to be a dream. _Fact_: I had gone to sleep last night as John Bean, a typical guy from Kansas who worked as a systems analyst at a bank in an average Midwestern city. _Fact_: I've read and enjoyed Harry Potter novels since I first saw them in paperback back in 2002 or so. _Fact_: I now seemed to be in Gilderoy Lockhart's body, standing in his loo, trying to figure out how I got here and how I was going to get those damned curlers out of my hair.

I figured it out, eventually (the curler part), though it took me more than two hours to shower, shave and do _something_ with my hair before donning the robe hanging on the stand in the bedroom. I was putting the final touches to my "'do" when a woman's voice called out, "Are you all right up there?"

I froze. _Who else could be here_, I wondered, panicking for a moment. The books had never mentioned Lockhart being involved with anyone (other than himself) — I had assumed he lived alone. "Everything's fine," I called out, trying to sound wide awake and cheerful. "I'll be down in a minute!"

Finished in the bathroom, I walked into the hallway and found a staircase leading down to the main level, but stopped, remembering I'd forgotten something important: I returned to the room and picked up Lockhart's wand, fumbling around with the robe for several moments before finding a pocket where he seemed most likely to keep it.

A sudden impulse made me step over to the desk, looking for a calendar or something that would tell me _when_ I was — what year, month, day was it? There wasn't much in the way of information there, just a few scattered scrolls of parchment. I picked up a small scroll and unrolled it, finding a list of books. There was a heading that read, "My current books, as of 15 July 1992." So it was at least mid-July of the year Lockhart went to teach at Hogwarts. Right, now I had at least _some_ idea where and when I was in all this, whatever was going on. I slipped the scroll into a pocket, took a deep breath, feeling completely lost, then put on a bright, cheery smile and walked down the steps to the first floor.

I had no idea how Lockhart's home was arranged or where the woman whose voice I'd heard had come from. The stairs were at one end of a long, spacious hallway, and I could see several doors running along it; on the walls were hung several portraits of Lockhart, all of them flashing brilliant, blue-eyed smiles at me — it was like looking down a hallway of strange mirrors, as they brushed off nonexistent dust or adjusted perfectly-pressed collars.

"Here you are," the voice spoke again, this time so close it startled me. I turned and a middle-aged woman emerged through an open doorway next to the foot of the stairs, peering at me closely. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked, sounding concerned. I finally nodded, slowly, and she took my arm, looking intently at my face. "Tell me who you are," she said, her tone almost commanding.

I blinked. _I'm not really sure_, I wanted to say, but at this point, I didn't dare question my own identity, even jokingly. I had no idea how I'd gotten here or who this woman was, but everything so far pointed to one inescapable conclusion. Smiling as gamely as I could, I said, "Why, I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, of course."

The woman stared at me for a long time; I was beginning to wonder if she doubted me. Suddenly, with a cackled laugh like an old hen, she slapped me on the arm and said, "Well, _course_ you are! Wondered what you were playing at for a moment there, Gilderoy, taking so long to answer!"

She turned and walked back into the doorway, which turned out to lead into the kitchen, and I followed, seeing a plate on the table there with a single Danish roll and cup of coffee. The woman was just finishing what had looked like a plateful of eggs and bacon; there were still a few scraps left on her own plate.

"Hurry up and eat," she directed, pointing to the roll. "You're almost late! He doesn't like to be kept waiting, you know."

"Who?" I said automatically, before I could stop myself. I probably _should_ know who was coming to see me, and probably _would_ have, too, if I was really Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Why, Professor Dumbledore, of course!" she said, her eyes widening with surprise. I had my first chance to really look at her, close up, since I'd met her. She was horse-faced and thin, with graying hair pulled back in a bun. I guessed she was either Lockhart's housekeeper or his mother, since I couldn't (and didn't want to!) imagine any other reason for her being in his home so early in the morning. "Surely you haven't forgotten you're interviewing with him today for a teaching position at Hogwarts!"

I smiled, trying to fake my way through my blunder. "Of course, of course, I haven't forgotten! Just a bit slow waking up this morning." I walked past her into the room. "I'll just have a spot of breakfast and be on my way to see him." _If I could just figure out where the hell we were supposed to meet, and when_, I added silently to myself.

But she put a hand on my arm. "You _are_ addled this morning, aren't you?" she said, giving me a penetrating look. "He's coming _here_. And what you've done with your hair this morning — _tsk_!" She walked to a nearby counter and opened a drawer, pulling out a hairbrush and pointing to a chair at the table. "Sit, Gilderoy."

"But —"

"But _nothing_, my lad! He'll be here any minute. Now _sit_. And eat your roll." Meekly I took the chair she pointed at and let her brush and rearrange my hair into something more presentable than I'd been able to accomplish. "There," she said after a few minutes. "At least it doesn't look like you slept on it now." At that moment there was a ringing sound from the front of the house.

"There he is," the woman said. She gave me a quick inspection, then threw the brush back into the drawer. "Mind yourself now, Gilderoy," she said sternly, her voice and manner reminding me at that moment of Minerva McGonagall. "This is an important job, now — Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Don't go mucking it up! Now come along. _Be right there_!" She called out loudly, and then led me down the long hallway to the front door, smoothing out her skirt and primping her own hair into place. I was beginning to think she was Lockhart's mother, with all of her fussing over my appearance, an idea that frankly worried me.

She was about to open the door, then noticed me standing behind her. "What's _wrong_ with you?" she whispered furiously, pointing to a nearby doorway. "Get in there! I'll bring him in to you!" I scuttled past her into the room — it was a parlor or living room — which was quite overstated: there was a large, polished wooden desk, a globe of the world, a huge fireplace beneath an impressive wooden mantelpiece, and various trappings of opulence such as suits of armor and display cases of various unfathomable items. There were paintings hung in here as well, every one of them portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart.

I had never cared much for the character of Gilderoy Lockhart in the second Harry Potter book. He was a narcissist, a poseur, a charlatan and a fraud; he'd stolen other people's fame for himself, wiping out their memories in order to present their experiences as his own. How had I ended up as him, rather than as someone from this universe I _liked_, like Remus Lupin or even Sirius Black? Getting back home was going to be a difficult mystery to solve, assuming it was even possible to figure out what had happened. Right now, though, I had an even bigger problem: I had to convince a man who was arguably the most powerful wizard in this world I was Gilderoy Lockhart and that I deserved to work for him as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at his school. Whatever else I might do here, I didn't want to change the timeline as I knew it before my untimely arrival, at least until I had good reason to do so.

I heard murmured greetings as I waited, nervously, in the parlor; then Professor Dumbledore walked into the room. Like Lockhart, Dumbledore did not look like either of the movie versions of himself. He was a bit taller than Lockhart, and his face, although elderly, was still pleasant to look upon. His blue eyes, looking at me over half-moon spectacles, seemed to twinkle merrily as we shook hands.

"Very nice of you to meet me here, in my home, Professor Dumbledore," I said genially, barely keeping my heart from leaping into my throat. "May I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps?"

"Tea would be most welcome, thank you," Dumbledore replied, agreeably, and I signaled to the woman, who bustled off to bring it. His voice was deeper than I expected, and quieter than Michael Gambon's, the actor who'd portrayed him in the last few movies. "It has been a long journey from Hogwarts to your home, Gilderoy."

"Ah, you just flew in and boy, are your arms tired," I said with a chuckle, which died in my throat as Dumbledore reacted with nothing but a blank, if polite, stare. I said nothing for several moments, wondering how to recover from my gaffe. "How are things at the school these days, Professor?" I finally asked.

"Quite well, quite well," Dumbledore replied, nodding slowly, as if to himself. "And do feel free to call me Albus," he added. "We needn't stand on formality, even if this is an employment interview."

"Thank you, Albus," I agreed, and decided to inquire a bit further. It would be very reasonable for me to ask why a former employee was no longer at the job. "I understand that you had a spot of trouble near the end of the year," I mentioned casually.

Dumbledore nodded serenely once again. "We did have some trouble with our previous Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, unfortunately, but that has since been resolved."

"It was Quirrell, wasn't it?" I inquired, trying to remember the man's first name. It began with a "Q" as well, but it wasn't coming to mind. Quintus, or Quirinus — something like that.

"Unfortunate that he isn't able to continue, of course," I went on without waiting for Dumbledore to reply. "What's he doing now, do you know?" I knew he was dead, but didn't think that had ever become public knowledge in the books.

"Unfortunately, Quirinus met with an untimely demise," Dumbledore said quietly, with a small sigh. "There were some protective spells guarding a very important item, and he fell afoul of them, to his final regret." I nodded, saying nothing, though I knew the outcome of the duel between Quirrell and Harry Potter.

The woman returned, bringing a tray with a teapot and two cups, a creamer and a bowl of sugar. She poured each of us a cup of steaming liquid; Dumbledore and I both nodded as she added sugar and cream to the cups and passed them to us. I smiled happily at her and she nodded, leaving us with the tray.

"I am glad to say, Gilderoy, that your great reputation precedes you," Dumbledore said after she'd gone, giving me a fatherly smile. "I trust you will know better than to attempt to stray beyond the boundaries of your skill."

I blinked, wondering for a startled moment if Dumbledore had seen through me. After a moment, though, I realized that he probably knew Lockhart vastly overrated himself. What I wondered now was, _why_ did Dumbledore really want such a fop for his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?

But I still needed to respond to him. "Have no fear, Professor," I said, flashing a brilliant smile. "I'm quite aware of my capabilities." _As I'm sure you are as well_.

"Please do call me Albus, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said, giving me a disarming smile. "As I said earlier, we need not stand on formalities such as honorifics and surnames.

"It is not common knowledge," he continued smoothly, "although I am sure a great wizard such as you has doubtless heard, that there is a curse upon the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts."

"I'm aware of it, Albus," I said, waving an airy hand as if to dismiss the notion, though it had also come to my mind as he mentioned my capabilities. No teacher had held that position at the school more than a year since Voldemort tried to trick Dumbledore into giving it to him after the previous headmaster — what was that name again? — had left the school. "Never fear, my good man," I said confidently, "I will do everything in my power to overcome You-Know-Who's curse!"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, watching me. The truth was, I had no idea how I was going to extricate myself from this mess. I was frankly considering confessing everything to Dumbledore and putting myself at his service, to help me figure out how to get home. Arguably, he was the best man for the job. If _he_ couldn't figure out how to get me home, I didn't know who could. I surely didn't fancy being stuck at Hogwarts, incapable of doing magic and with nowhere else to go!

"Very well, then," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. I stood as well, and he took my hand, shaking it firmly as he said, "Welcome to the Hogwarts teaching staff, Gilderoy. I trust you will find the school much as you left it twenty years ago."

"Thank you, Albus," I said again, returning his handshake. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man born over a hundred years ago. Born in eighteen hundred and eighty-one, if I remembered my Harry Potter facts correctly. I clamped my thoughts down on a mental curse. I was really in for it now, unless I figured out a way home.

Dumbledore turned to go, but stopped and asked. "Would you care to come back to Hogwarts with me, Gilderoy, to finalize some of the arrangements for your personal quarters and a list of books students will need to pick up for your classes?"

"Er —" He'd caught me off-guard with that question. "Well, I don't know, Albus — I may have some other things to take care of today," I faltered, uncertainly. The truth was, I was afraid to leave this house!

Dumbledore nodded, seemingly unconcerned. "No matter, no matter, dear boy. It is not a requirement for now."

Requirement? _Requirement_!

"It may be a good idea at that, Albus," I hastened to say. "I would like a quick look at the old alma mater."

The old man smiled. "As you wish, Gilderoy."

I walked with him to the front door, telling the housekeeper as she hurried up behind us, "I'm going to make preparations to stay at Hogwarts, my dear." I still didn't know her name!

"Oh, very good, Mr. Lockhart!" she said quickly, obviously excited that I'd gotten the job. "For a treat, I'll prepare your favorite meal for dinner tonight!"

Dumbledore turned to her with a slight bow. "Delighted, as always, to see you again, Mrs. Witherhams."

"And you as well, Professor Dumbledore," she replied with a simpering smile. "Be sure to hurry back for supper when you're done at Hogwarts, Mr. — I mean, _Professor_ Lockhart!" she added with a broad wink.

"Thank you, dear, I will," I said, patting her on the arm. "I'll be home as quickly as I can." At least now I knew her name, courtesy of Dumbledore's offhand comment. And I was now pretty well convinced that Mrs. Witherhams was my housekeeper (thankfully!) and not my mother. Dumbledore and I walked out onto the stoop, and I looked around, trying to appear like I was just casually looking around as I frantically memorized the layout of nearby buildings and the numbers on my own door — 14. But what was the street? There were no signs nearby to tell!

"Would you care to do the honors, Gilderoy?" Dumbledore said quietly, putting out his hand as if to touch my arm. Again I froze, but only for a moment. He might be baiting me deliberately, to test my reaction. I had no idea from the second book how well Lockhart could Apparate, but _I_ certainly couldn't do it! I would have to feign not feeling well and hope Dumbledore would buy it.

"If you don't mind, Albus," I said, placing my hand to my forehead as if it were hurting. "I'm feeling a bit fuzzy — I woke up rather late and have been a bit disoriented this morning."

"Not feeling well?" Dumbledore inquired, genuine concern in his voice.

"Just a bit peaked," I said, with a small shrug. That wasn't too far from the truth, really. "If I could get a little help, it would be much appreciated, Albus."

"Very well," Dumbledore said, offering me his right arm. "Put your hand on my arm. And remember, I am simply leading you." He turned on the spot and —

_— and _Oh! My! God!_ it was as if a gigantic hand had grabbed me and forced me into a narrow black tube that threatened to squeeze the breath right out of me, keeping me from inhaling or exhaling, until it seemed as if I was going to choke and I writhed and turned every which way I could to break free but nothing worked and I couldn't even move my arms to try and claw myself free and — _

And just as suddenly, we were standing in front of a set of gates, flanked by pillars upon which were set statues of flying pigs. I barely noticed them, however, because I was bent over double, gasping for breath.

"Are you alright, dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, concerned once again. I nodded, still not able to speak; Apparating had caught me quite by surprise. Finally, I stood upright and pushed blond locks out of my face.

"Sorry to be such a bother, Albus," I said between deep breaths. "I suppose I'm a bit more under the weather than I thought. But no matter," I said, raising a hand as he started to speak. "We're here now, no use crying over spilt milk." Which sounded stupid but I'd already said it. "We can take care of business and I can be on my way home." _With perhaps a small detour before I go_.

Dumbledore took out his wand and flicked it at the gates, which promptly opened. I looked carefully at the wand as he did so, remembering that it was the Elder Wand, reputedly created by Death itself but probably by one of the Peverell brothers. At the moment I could recall none of their names in the seventh book.

We walked up the path from the gates to the front doors of the castle, up the stone steps and into the Entrance Hall, where we were greeted by a hunched-over, older man who must be the school's caretaker. "Welcome home, Headmaster," Argus Filch murmured deferentially as he closed the doors behind us.

"Thank you, Mr. Filch," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Will you notify Professor McGonagall that I've returned with our newest staff member? I'm sure she'll be anxious to know who's taken the position."

Filch nodded, then grunted, "Come along, my sweet." I stared at him, confused, until I realized he wasn't addressing me or Dumbledore, but the gray-colored cat at his heels, who must be Mrs. Norris. The cat stood motionless for several seconds, watching me, and I had the strange sensation that it was trying to figure me out. Finally, though, it turned and hurried after its master.

"An interesting creature," Dumbledore commented, noticing as I watched the cat leave with Filch.

"Part Kneazle, isn't it?" I replied, remembering a bit of information about the cat, and Dumbledore nodded as a small, pleased smiled flitted across his lips.

"Indeed, indeed it is," he murmured, now leading me across the Entrance Hall to the large staircase leading up to the second floor (the _first_ floor, I corrected myself, remembering that in Britain the first floor is called the ground floor). "Mr. Filch's cat is quite intelligent," Dumbledore continued as we walked up the staircase to the next level. "I remember one time when I was looking for Mr. Filch, and happened to see his cat nearby. 'Run, and tell Mr. Filch I need to see him,' I told her, and do you know, within a minute, he appeared?" Dumbledore sounded almost impressed by that, and I nodded with interest as he finished the tale.

"Do you suppose there is some sort of magical connection between them?" I asked.

"Possibly," Dumbledore said, with the slightest shrug. "But, and this is just between us, Gilderoy, Mr. Filch has no magical ability to speak of, I'm afraid to say."

Of course I already knew that, but I lowered my voice and said, in a shocked tone, "A _Squib_?"

Dumbledore nodded once, sadly. "He does very well as our caretaker, however."

We were approaching a stone gargoyle, which I remembered was the guardian of the entrance to the Headmaster's office. I fell silent, curious to hear what the password was, but Dumbledore merely took out his wand and tapped it once on the head; whereupon it leaped aside, revealing the circular staircase leading up to his office. Too bad! It might have been useful to know, at least in the near term.

I was also curious to know how we were going to seal this deal. In the _Goblet of Fire_ movie Barty Crouch, Senior, had mentioned that having one's name come out of the Goblet constituted a binding, magical contract. And if I remembered correctly, when Hermione had everyone sign up for Dumbledore's Army, they were doing much the same thing, with the consequences that anyone who broke the agreement suffered a curse that spelled out the word "SNEAK" in boils or pimples across their face, which had happened to one of the members. Marietta something or other.

But I was distracting myself from the business at hand. Dumbledore had produced a sheet of parchment with a fairly detailed contract written on it. "Read that, please, Gilderoy," he told me, seating himself in the chair behind his desk. "If you agree to the terms, please sign and date it at the bottom."

I scanned the contract carefully. I wanted to know what I was getting Lockhart (and myself) into, even though from what my housekeeper had said, he really wanted this job. I wondered if the real Lockhart had known about Voldemort's curse, but in the books it apparently hadn't mattered — he'd taken the job, hadn't he?

Let's see: I was required to be at the school from 1 September until 30 June, with a few days off between terms for holidays and other personal matters. Compensation, 300 Galleons per month. Not too bad a pay rate, then. I had wondered about that as well. At £5 per Galleon, that was £1500 per month for ten months, or about £15,000 per year — around 30,000 U.S. dollars. The rest of the contract was about medical care (available for free from the hospital wing), protection from the Dark Arts while on school grounds (as was everyone), and the general duties and requirements of being a teacher. I picked up the quill lying next to the contract, dipped it in the inkwell Dumbledore provided, and signed Gilderoy Lockhart's name, which I hoped was actually "Gilderoy Lockhart."

"And the date, please, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said quietly, pointing a long finger to a line beside my name.

"What is today?" I asked, looking up at him.

"The thirty-first of July," Dumbledore replied.

"Ah, Harry Potter's birthday," I said, scribbling 31 July 1992 onto the contract, remembering to use the British format for the date. That reminded me — I had Lockhart's booklist still in my pocket, so I pulled it out as well. "Here you are, Albus, and my current list of books as well." I began to hand them both to him, only to find Dumbledore gazing at me with a most curious look on his face.

"Do you know Harry Potter, Gilderoy?" Dumbledore asked, his eyebrows raised. Of all the things Gilderoy Lockhart might have said to him, a remark about Harry Potter was obviously not one he expected to hear!

"By reputation only," I said, offhandedly, as he took the contract and booklist from me. "I understand he began attending Hogwarts last fall."

"His first year, yes," Dumbledore replied, with a small nod.

"He must be quite popular," I commented. Harry's popularity would be an interest of Lockhart's, of course — he always seemed quite keen to associate himself with the famous and well-known, even a boy like Harry, in order to keep his name in the public eye as much as possible.

"No more than any other student at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said mildly.

"No other student at Hogwarts was attacked by — eh — well, by You-Know-Who, and survived," I said. I had nearly used the name _Voldemort_. As much as I had surprised Dumbledore already, I'm _sure_ he would never expect to hear _that_ name from Gilderoy Lockhart's mouth!

"True, true," Dumbledore said, stroking his beard absently. "He also played a small part in helping Gryffindor win the House Cup at the end-of-year feast."

"Did he?" I said, although I remembered what Harry had done. "It's been quite some time since they've won it, hasn't it?"

Dumbledore must have grown tired of our banter, though, because he'd stood once again. "Forgive me, Gilderoy, but time is pressing, and I have several more tasks to accomplish today." He steered me toward the large, polished wooden door of his office. "I trust you will be able to find your own way home."

_Probably not, but —_ "Yes, thank you, Albus, for giving me the opportunity to work here with you," I said, flatteringly, as Dumbledore opened the door to send me on my way. "Oh, just one more thing —" I turned just as the door was about to close. Dumbledore stopped to listen to my request. "Would you mind if I took a stroll about the castle, to reacquaint myself with it again before popping back home?"

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Please do, Gilderoy. My castle is your castle." And with that he shut the door, leaving me alone on the steps.

I hurried down them and out into the empty corridor beyond, turning to watch as the wall closed and the gargoyle moved into its normal position guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Now that his and my business was done, I could go after what I _really_ came here for.

The Room of Requirement!

It was somewhere on the seventh floor, in a corridor that contained the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to perform ballet. That was also the floor where the entrance to Gryffindor's common room was, but I was hoping that the school was empty except for staff, and not many of them at that.

I found the floor and began wandering up and down one corridor after another, trying to locate that tapestry. As I did, I also pondered the seeming coincidence of finding myself in this world on Harry Potter's twelfth birthday, if indeed a coincidence it was. If I recalled correctly, Harry didn't have a very happy 12th birthday — he got into an awful shouting match with his uncle Vernon for saying the word "magic;" then, when Dudley taunted him about his parents not remembering Harry's birthday, Harry scared him with fake magic words, bringing down more of Vernon and Petunia's wrath upon him. Then, a house-elf named Dobby showed up in his room, telling him he couldn't return to Hogwarts, the one place where he felt like he had a home, and performed magic that Harry was blamed for. No, it had not been one of Harry's happier birthdays today. I hoped today would turn out better for me than it had for him.

Finally I located the tapestry and stood looking at it, amused. It was a rather ludicrous piece of art, but it did have a certain style about it, as Barnabas the Barmy, a scary-looking, wild-eyed fellow, tried to choreograph a half-dozen trolls wearing ridiculously out-sized tutus. In fact it gave me the first genuine, heartfelt laugh I'd had today since I'd awakened in Gilderoy Lockhart's bed. I'd _needed_ a laugh, I felt. Just as, now, I _needed_ to get into the Room of Requirement.

I walked up and down in front of the tapestry, thinking over and over again, _I need to learn to do magic, I need a way to put things right again and get home_, I kept wondering if the Room was going to work for me. I remembered it had worked for such trivial purposes as providing cleaning supplies for Filch, or a hiding place for Fred and George when they were trying to get away from him, and for Dumbledore himself, when he needed a chamber pot to relieve himself (although I often wondered just exactly what he was doing wandering around on the seventh floor looking for a bathroom) — it should work for me, I reasoned, especially with a need as great as mine. And Lockhart's need as well, I suddenly realized; if I was here in his body, I could only surmise that he was in mine as well. That thought, at that moment, gave me absolutely no comfort at all.

And it _wasn't_ working! I was on my fourth pass and still no door had appeared. I began walking faster and thinking harder, not knowing what else to do.

I breathed a _huge_ sigh of relief when, on the eighth pass, a large wooden door suddenly appeared on the wall across from Barnabas's tapestry. I hurried inside, wondering what awaited me.

Whatever I had been expecting, I wasn't disappointed. I found a spacious room, with row after row of shelves filled with book, glass storage cases full of potions, and a cupboard loaded with small vials of silvery, swirling material and a flattened stone bowl I knew to be a Pensieve. I roamed up and down the rows of shevles, finding school books of spells, "how-to" spell books, scholarly magical periodicals, and so on, with every type of magic one could think of: Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, even the Dark Arts themselves.

Looking at the vials of memories in the cupboard, I found them neatly ordered by subject, teacher and year — as if various teachers had left them behind in order to provide a summary of their coursework. I would start with these, I decided.

I was soon to find there was no free lunch to learning in the Harry Potter universe, so far as I could determine. To know something, you had to _learn_ it — you couldn't just absorb knowledge without your brain actually processing and comprehending it. It would have been nice if that _did_ work! I could have just tossed these vials of memories directly into my head instead of sitting through the Pensieve lessons. Fortunately the teachers who had provided these memories had edited and arranged the memories to provide only the pertinent information, so I could go through a week or so worth of lessons in a couple of hours.

By the end of that day, though, I realized that my task was daunting in the extreme — I was trying to give myself a complete Hogwarts education, and it was _not_ going to happen in a single afternoon! It was probably going to take me the entire month of August to make any kind of dent in the amount of learning I needed to do.

I also realized, as the evening wore on, that I would eventually have to eat and sleep, and take bathroom breaks. I remembered that I wasn't going to be able to conjure up food or drink for myself, even if I _did_ learn magic — they were exceptions to the something-or-other laws of magic. Gad, I wished for some internet access! I could check the Harry Potter Lexicon or PotterWiki for the name, whatever it was, and try to find it in one of these books.

The bathroom problem was solved easily enough. My need to go to the bathroom was what solved it, in fact — as I was dancing on one leg, then the other, wondering where I could go, a door appeared on one of the walls, leading to a lavatory area complete with a toilet, shower and basin with hot and cold running water, and a cupboard filled with towels, bars of soap and hair shampoo and conditioner. Not my favorite brands, unfortunately, but I supposed Bertie Bott's Every Fragrance Shampoo and Conditioner would have to do.

As for food, I could see only one obvious solution. A little before midnight I stepped cautiously out of the Room of Requirement into the corridor beyond, leaving the door slightly ajar, in case closing it might cause the room to disappear and I would have to find it again. I absolutely did not want _that_! It was pitch dark in the corridor, as I expected, but I had been practicing with my wand inside the room — now was the time to put it to the test. I held the wand up and said softly, "_Lumos_." There was a soft crackling sound, and the wand's tip glowed brightly, illuminating the corridor. So far, so good. Now, I need only hope that house-elves had large ears for a reason.

"If there are any house-elves within the sound of my voice," I said softly, "Please come to me." There was a soft _crack_ and I flinched, startled, as a house-elf appeared before me.

"Greetings, honored sir," it said in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, bowing so low that its ears actually _did_ touch the ground. I was so distracted by its appearance, with its bat-like ears, large, luminous eyes, ridiculously long nose, and the nearly inadequate sheet draped over itself like a toga, that I almost forgot why I'd called it. "The honored sir requies something?" the house-elf finally asked.

"Ah, yes — yes, of course," I said, clearing my throat. "Do you know who I am, by any chance?" I asked, trying to give myself a moment to collect my thoughts.

"Yes, sir," the elf said, bowing low again. "You are the great Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, the newest teacher on our honored staff. What does Professor Lockhart desire?"

"What is your name?" I asked.

The house-elf looked up at me, a shocked expression on his homely features. "My name? Sir is asking _my_ name?" The elf swelled with joy before my eyes. I had forgotten that house-elves considered themselves beneath notice — to them, the attention of a wizard was a high honor. Dobby had been so ecstatic over Harry Potter's concern for him that he found the courage to break away from Lucius Malfoy, his master, when he had the chance, and actually _attacked_ him when Malfoy tried to retaliate against Potter for tricking him into freeing Dobby.

"Yes, of course, my good fellow," I pressed on, deciding that it couldn't hurt to make friends with someone in a position to provide me with free food for the next month. "After all, I would prefer not to say 'hey, you!' if you have a name, which I'm sure you do."

"Boddy, Professor Lockhart, sir, and very honored to give it to you, sir, very honored indeed!"

"Thank you, Boddy." I squatted down on my heels, my lighted wand still held high to provide illumination. "Please call me Gilderoy."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Boddy was nearly bouncing in anticipation of hearing whatever I was going to ask him, so happy did he seem to be to have the undivided attention of a wizard.

"I'm going to be using the Come and Go Room for some time —" I saw Boddy's surprise as I used the house-elf term for the Room of Requirement "— and I'll need food and drink. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to bring something up from the kitchen for me."

"It would be Boddy's great honor to do so!" Boddy said, bowing low once again. But when he looked up at me again, his face held a measure of uncertainty. "But — one cannot get inside the room, once occupied, unless one has the same need as the person inside, sir."

I had expected as much. "But you could knock on the wall where the door is and I would hear it inside and let you in." I knew that would work because I remembered Crabbe and Goyle signaling Malfoy from outside the Room by dropping some heavy object or other on the floor.

"Yes, sir," Boddy nodded. "That would work, sir."

I turned to the nearby wall. "When you return, use this knock." I showed him the old "shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits" knock (the one from _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_). "Don't try to come in if there are any other teachers or school staff around. The work I'm doing is very sensitive, and will take me most of the month to complete. After I've completed my work, I'll offer my commendation for you and all of the Hogwarts house-elves _personally _to Professor Dumbledore himself."

Boddy gasped at the praise I planned to bestow upon him and his fellows. "Professor Lockhart is too kind, sir!" he whispered, bowing so low he nearly fell flat on the floor before me. "We house-elves do not deserve so great an honor!"

"Of course you do, dear lad," I said graciously. "Now, would you be so kind as to bring me something to eat? Remember —" and I tapped _shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits_ on the wall again, to remind him.

"Boddy will return immediately with something for you to eat, sir!" Boddy said, and with a loud _crack_ he disappeared. I returned to the Room to wait for his return. It was not more than a few minutes later when there was a familiar tapping on the door, and I let Boddy and two other house-elves into the room carrying several trays of food and drink.

In fact, they'd brought enough food to feed _three_ of me! There were slabs of roasted beef and chicken, bowls of potatoes, corn and peas, gravy and bread, and pitchers of pumpkin juice, milk and water, as well as a few empty golden plates and with silverware, drinking cups, and cloth napkins. And it was a good thing, too — I was able to eat two meals' worth before I was done, I was so hungry.

At the end of my magnificent dinner I fell onto a cot that one of the house-elves who'd helped bring the food — Linky was his name, I believe — had thoughtfully provided for me and slept like a dead man until morning.

I woke the next morning half-wondering whether I would find myself back in my own bed, the whole experience having been just a _very_ strange dream, but I was still in the Room of Requirement and still in a very blond and blue-eyed body.

Thus began the re-education of Gilderoy Lockhart, latest professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I hoped, somewhere along the way, I could figure out a way home.


	2. Chapter 2

The month of August was a blur as I spent nearly waking hour of my first three weeks in the Room of Requirement goinig through the Pensieve magic lessons, reading books on magical theory, and practicing casting spells. Boddy and other house-elves who visited the Room with him kept me fed, laundered my clothes, and became more-or-less my only contact with the outside world during that time.

Alright, I'll admit — I was scared stiff at the idea of leaving the Room at the end of the month. By the end of the first two weeks I had mastered many of the basic magic spells: _Lumos_, _Wingardium Leviosa_, _Expelliarmus_, and even some of the trickier ones like _Alohomora_, _Accio_, _Aguamenti_, and of course an assortment of jinxes, hexes and curses I ought to know as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts.

At the rate I was learning, though, I didn't know if I'd be skillful enough to teach the more difficult spells like the Protean Charm, the Patronus Charm, or even something like the Extension Charm. I began looking around the room for something else to give me an edge.

There were potions in the display case that I found would be handy to have while I was there. Among the different kinds there were several Memory Potions and Everlasting Elixirs, which I looked up in a potions manual from one of the bookcases. A Memory Potion, I discovered, enhanced one's ability to recall — specifically, anything learned in the past seven days. That became very useful, especially when I combined it with the Everlasting Elixir, which enhanced the effects of the last potion that I had imbibed in the previous 24 hours.

There were some side effects when taking these potions, unfortunately. I tended to remember _everything_ that had happened in the previous week, including little doubts, misgivings, and fears I'd felt about going out into the Wizarding world at the end of August, and I remembered all the bad dreams I had while asleep, which I rarely did before. Fortunately, there were also a few Drafts of Peace in the potions case, and at the end of the second week, after I'd read up on its effects, I immediately drank one, feeling much more rested and peaceful immediately. I couldn't help but wonder, though, what side effects the Draught of Peace might have on me…

Even at the breakneck pace I was going, however, I didn't think I'd finish the Pensieve lessons in the time I had left. After three weeks I had only made it to the middle of the third year of the "lecture series" on magic, but I couldn't go much faster — I was already studying 16 or 17 hours a day, then falling onto my cot, exhausted, for a few hours before dragging myself back to the grind.

While engaged in all of this, I was trying to anticipate the difficulties I was going to have pretending to be Gilderoy Lockhart, a character from the Harry Potter series I disliked almost as much as Voldemort himself. I would be dealing with the likes of Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, his goons Crabbe and Goyle, and Cornelius Fudge, not to mention trying to convince Dumbledore and the rest of the Hogwarts staff — McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Hagrid (no wait, he didn't start teaching until the third year; but he was still the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds for Hogwarts), and the other teachers, that I was the real deal. Not to mention, on top of that, Riddle's damned diary, and the monster of Slytherin.

For a while I tried to decide whether I could try to get my hands on a Time Turner, to go back in the past and continue my education in the Room of Requirement. I quickly realized, though, that I would have to be careful not to usurp the use of the Room from anyone that had already used it in the past. I looked for, and found, a list of recent uses of the room, and found that the caretaker, Mr. Filch, had needed some cleaning supplies just a week or so before I arrived.

The Room had been used quite often during the previous school year, it turned out: by Fred and George, hiding from Filch, by various other students for a place to make out, and several times by Professor Trelawney, who regularly hid her sherry bottles there. It just wasn't going to be practical for me to keep leaving the Room so these people could use it unaided, even if I _could_ get ahold of a Time Turner in the first place! It seemed pretty unlikely I could find a way into the Ministry of Magic to obtain one.

So, with just a week left, I threw myself back into my studies with renewed resolve. Perhaps, if I could increase the rate I was learning by just a little more, I might make it to the end of the fourth year of study by August 31st. I pushed even harder than I had during the first three weeks; finding a couple of Invigoration Draughts in the potion case helped rejuvenate my spirits and made it easier to plug away for 17 or 18 hours a day in the Pensieve and at the books.

Boddy and his fellow house-elves were also useful in providing more than just creature comforts to me: I recruited them into my practical spell training, especially Dark Arts defense spells. There were a few hurdles to overcome, naturally. They weren't willing, at first, to attack a wizard; it was considered a horrible breach of house-elf-wizard relations, but I convinced them by saying it would be a great boost to my "assignment," and Dumbledore would appreciate them helping me out as much as possible. Of course, hearing stuff like that made them all the more eager to be helpful.

And, as it turns out, fighting house-elves is pretty damned hard.

At first, any one of them could disarm me at will. Their disarming spell was much more powerful than _Expelliarmus_ — and you can't disarm a house-elf that doesn't carry a wand in the first place! _Levicorpus_ would work, I found, but a house-elf could Disapparate, even inverted, and reappear upright somewhere else. Apparently, Disapparating broke the Levicorpus spell as easily as the counter curse, _Liberacorpus_, did. When they got comfortable with the idea of dueling a wizard, though, I found that they were even more eager to give me pointers on how to counter their spells. Since any house-elf, when provoked, could easily out-duel the average wizard, I hoped that my accelerated training with them would pay off if I had to go up against someone in the Wizarding world like Cornelius Fudge or Mundungus Fletcher. Against someone like Dumbledore, or even Snape, though, I knew I didn't' stand a chance.

By the middle of the fourth week, I was able to hold my own against one or two house-elves, provided we observed the formal rules of dueling: standing 10 to 15 feet apart, arms at sides; bowing to the opponent, then, after flourishing one's wand (or hand in the case of house-elves), both sides would attack simultaneously at the command of a referee. The loser was whomever was knocked down or out of the dueling area, or was unable to continue within 30 seconds of the attack. I would sometimes get in a lucky spell, putting my opponent to sleep or hitting them with an Engorgement Charm, which they had difficulty countering. Even so, I had to vary my attacks to avoid becoming too predictable.

On August 28, with only a few days left before school began, I began concentrating more on practical training than on theory; I had made it to the end of the fourth-year studies in the Pensieve, and I felt I'd read as many spell casting books and encyclopedias as I could stomach. Hands-on training, though, with a real wizard was what I craved. I talked Boddy into a whole afternoon of dueling practice — of all the house-elves, he felt most at ease with me, it seemed.

We dueled into the evening, trading hexes and curses, then reviewed what I'd done that had worked, and what hadn't. Boddy indulged my desire to practice against a human opponent by enlarging himself to the size of a short human and using a shortened teacher's pointer to simulate a wizard's wand, letting me practice _Expelliarmus_ on him. I'd gotten fairly good, I felt — by necessity, since Boddy could easily beat me if I failed to disarm him first.

We finally took a break and sat drinking cups of pumpkin juice, which tasted much like pumpkin pie without the crust. I was tempted to try it warm with some whipped cream on top, but I never got around to asking for some made that way.

"Professor Lockhart is doing much better than last week, sir," Boddy said, as he drained half of his cup of juice in one gulp.

"I'm glad you're helping me, Boddy," I said, smothering a massive yawn behind my hand. "It would be difficult to do this on my own."

"The important project Professor Lockhart is helping the Headmaster with?" Boddy said, not quite looking at me directly. I nodded, vaguely, not really wanting to lie to him. Of course, I could hardly admit that I was really a Muggle trapped in this body and needing a crash course in magic.

Well, _couldn't_ I? The Law of Being Paranoid says, "_Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get you_," but Boddy and his fellow house-elves had bent over backwards to help me these last four weeks, and while I'd tried to be friendly, there had been times when I'd been a rather foul git to them, yelling at them when I didn't have enough food on hand (which wasn't often) or when I thought they were ganging up on me during practical training (when in fact they mostly went out of their way to help me rather than beat me at dueling). "Boddy," I said, looking directly at him. "Do you trust me?"

"Trust Professor Lockhart?" Boddy echoed, his great green eyes blinking slowly. It was possible I had surprised him with such a question. "Certainly Boddy trusts you, sir! Professor Lockhart has done Boddy and his fellows a great honor! In all the time Boddy has been here, no human has spoken kindly to any house-elf save for Professor Dumbledore!"

That made me feel pretty damned bad, both for him and for house-elves like as Dobby (and even Kreacher), who were no more than slaves in the Wizarding houses they served. "I have to tell you something," I said slowly, wondering if I could really give away a secret like this. It would probably shock Boddy even more than a question about trust. The idea of other worlds, other realities, was something I doubted any house-elf could even conceive of.

"I am not what I seem to be," I blurted suddenly.

"Professor Lockhart is not a great Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and wizard?" Boddy cocked his large head to one side, looking confused. Unfortunately, it reminded me of a look I've seen dogs give people when they are confused, and I smiled reflexively at Boddy's reaction.

"No, I'm not," I continued. "I'm a fraud."

Boddy still looked confused. "I'm not the great Gilderoy Lockhart, wizard adventurer extraordinaire. I have none of those memories. I — I've forgotten them, somehow," I finished, changing what I was going to say at the last moment.

"Was — was Professor Lockhart attacked, sir?" Boddy asked, genuine concern and even outrage evident even in his high, squeaky voice.

"I — I don't remember," I said, looking upset. I really _was_, too — at myself. I had just chickened out of telling Boddy that I wasn't Gilderoy Lockhart at all, but another person inhabiting his body. I wondered if he would think I was someone impersonating him with Polyjuice, or a Metamorphmagus, or something I couldn't even guess at. "I've been trying to retrain myself," I went on, trying to ignore the adoring looks Boddy was giving me. "But I still don't remember anything about my life. Wherever that knowledge went," I ended with, pointing to my own head. "I haven't been able to retrieve it."

Boddy stood, looking positively determined. "Fear not, Professor Lockhart, sir," he said forcefully. "We house-elves, whom you have treated with such fairness and friendliness, shall not fail you. We will find your memories, and return them."

"Wait a minute, Boddy," I said quickly. I didn't like the sound of what he'd said, not at all. "I have _no idea_ where those memories are! Just _exactly_ what is it you intend to do?"

"We will find Professor Lockhart memories," Boddy repeated determinedly. "Your need is great, as shown by your presence here in the Come and Go Room. And our need is great as well, when someone we revere and trust finds themselves in great need. You should rest, Professor Lockhart, sir." He put a long-fingered hand on my shoulder, and I found myself lying back in bed, a great drowsiness coming over me. Almost the moment my head touched the pillow, I was asleep.



And I still wonder, sometimes, how differently things would have gone if I had told the simple truth about myself to Boddy, rather than fudging on the loss of "my" memories, even though the "me" underneath Lockhart's brilliant smile was nothing like that popinjay poseur.

When next I found myself awake I felt even groggier than I had the first day I was here. It was an effort just to sit up, but small hands were helping me, and I felt a cup being pressed into my hand as a soft voice crooned, "Drink this, Professor Lockhart, sir. It will make you feel better."

I put the cup to my lips but after the first swallow pulled it away: the taste was sharp and bitter, like medicine. "Aack," I said. "That's awful."

The cup was pressed back against my lips. "Drink it, sir, it will help you remember!"

_Remember what_? I thought hazily. But I sighed and tipped back the cup to finish swallowing the nasty stuff. "I need some water," I mumbled. "To kill the aftertaste."

The cup was taken from my hand and replaced with a glass, which I drank from, refreshingly. Ah, cool, clear water! But now another sensation made itself known. "I have to pee," I said, and slouched into the bathroom. Setting the empty glass on the countertop, I emptied my bladder into the toilet and returned to the cot, feeling relieved but no more awake than before.

For some reason I had expected to wake up feeling much less tired than this. I stifled a tremendous yawn and said, to no one in particular, "Why am I so sleepy? How long was I asleep?"

There was no answer. I forced my eyes fully open but closed them again almost immediately. My stomach felt queasy and my head was spinning. "What did I just drink?" I moaned.

"Boddy has returned Professor Lockhart's memories to him," the house-elf said. "It took Boddy and the other house-elves almost two days to collect them and brew the Potion of Recollection, but we have done it!" His voice sounded both afraid and triumphant.

"The Potion of Recollection?" I repeated. I'd never read anything about such a potion in any Wizarding text on potion-making. "What does it do?" My head started spinning even harder, and my hands went to both sides of my face, trying to hold it steady. Not surprisingly, it didn't work.

"It is an ancient potion brewed by house-elves for masters who have become the victims of Obliviation Charms," I heard Boddy say, even though I could barely comprehend anything at all now, my head was spinning so wildly. "It will help Professor Lockhart remember what he has fogotten."

I could no longer keep myself upright. I slumped back onto the cot and passed out once again.

I dreamed. Vivid, oddly real yet surreal dreams of a smiling, blond-haired boy whose good looks and charming ways, along with his knack for drawing useful information from schoolmates and a long list of girlfriends and other admirers, was able to parley his mediocre study habits into seven O.W.L.s, none of which he could have earned on his own. He struggled through his final two years at Hogwarts, earned no N.E.W.T.s but managed to maintain a friendly relationship with most of his teachers and classmates, primarily through his own charming personality, but even then, he'd learned the usefulness of discrete application of Memory Charms on people around him.

Once out of school, with no real prospects for gainful employment, he had taken on various odd jobs: his first, a customer relations liaison at Gringotts, had ended badly: the goblins working there did not react well to his attempts to charm them using either his personal charisma, or magic. He finally found a minor position in the Ministry of Magic working in the Department for International Magical Cooperation, a position that allowed him to travel to remote locations where he met some very interesting wizards, some with some unique experiences. With his ability to talk other wizards into sharing their experiences to him, and his knack for Memory Charms, he collected quite a few memorable experiences. After a while, it became something of a hobby for him. He would attend Ministry parties, entertaining his peers with tales of encounters with strange creatures and weird beings from around the world. People began to clamor for his stories, and for him to tell and retell them, feeding the young man's already enormous ego. For a time, no Wizarding party in Greater London was worth going to unless Gilderoy Lockhart was going to be there, to regale everyone with his legendary tales of derring do.

Finally, after spending nearly a decade collecting and saving memory after memory of enthralling stories from wizards across Europe and Asia, young Lockhart, by now almost completely enamored with his ability to captivate people with stories stolen from others, sat down and went through his collection, gathering together similar tales into a series of themed essays with himself as the central figure. _Voyages with Vampires _was published in 1983, followed by _Year with the Yeti_ in 1985 and _Break with a Banshee_ in 1986. They were well received, but it was _Break with a Banshee_ that catapulted him into the limelight, breaking sales records in the Wizarding world and paving the way for his three-volume set of _Gadding with Ghouls_, _Travels with Trolls_, and _Holidays with Hags_, all published in 1988. With all his books now flying off the bookshelves, he added another one, _Wanderings with Werewolves_, to the list in 1989.

After a brief hiatus, during which he was awarded the Order of Merlin, Third Class, and made an Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League Lockhart, now running low on new stories to tell, came out with _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests_, published in 1991. Ironically, the wizard Lockhart stole the information from had planned to write a similar book himself, and had gone to Lockhart for tips on how to become a successful magical writer. By now almost completely consumed by self-interest and narcissism, Lockhart's latest book, _Magical Me_, published in early 1992, was an autobiography that recounted his many travels and adventures.

Coincidentally, he shared the same birthday as Fred and George Weasley, being born on April 1, 1954. His current residence, at number 14 Stottenfield Court, London, was in an exclusive, limited access section of North London. He shared his home with Mrs. Adelpha Witherhams, a widow and his housekeeper and personal secretary who was also, of course, a witch.

I awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed, aware of all these things and at the same time feeling disconnected and remote from them. They were all memories of Lockhart, to be sure, but they were not _his_ memories. They had come from other minds, other viewpoints. I wondered how Boddy and his fellow house-elves had come by them. The only things I could imagine made me feel ill. Had they taken these memories from other people, other wizards, so they could distill them down and soak them into my brain, somehow?

There was a characteristic rapping at the door: _shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits_. I got slowly to my feet and stumbled over to the door; it was Boddy, who looked anxious as I let him in without a word and returned to the cot. "Has Professor Lockhart recovered his memories yet?" Boddy inquired as soon as I sat down.

I nodded slowly. "How did you find them, Boddy?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears, as if I'd suddenly acquired a slight British accent. I looked up at Boddy, then, and realized his face was covered in bruises. "Boddy, what happened —?"

Boddy looked away. "Many wizards know Professor Lockhart, sir," he mumbled. "The teachers here at school, his classmates. We took all of those memories —"

"You — you _stole_ people's memories of me?" I sputtered, outraged.

"_No_, Professor Lockhart, never!" Boddy cried, looking horrified at the very thought of what I'd suggested. "Boddy and other house-elves made them dream, in their sleep. We house-elves can listen to the thoughts of wizards when we are near them, though it is considered very, very wrong. We had to punish ourselves most severely!" That explained the welts on Boddy's face, I realized, feeling sickened at the thought.

"We then made the potion from _our_ thoughts," Boddy continued, "to give to Professor Lockhart, to help sir remember. The potion helps sir find his own memories, the ones suppressed by the Memory Charm someone used against Professor Lockhart!"

_Ingenious method_, I decided, and it might have worked — except that I didn't _have_ any of Lockhart's original memories suppressed within me, because _I wasn't Lockhart_. But I was still able to access the memories I'd been given, even though they felt remote and like I had learned them by reading a book through a pair of binoculars. Still, they might come in handy as knowledge about Lockhart I didn't have before.

"Thank you, Boddy," I said heavily, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. "You have been very helpful to me." I felt him swell with pride and joy at my commendation. The potion _had_ helped me some: I now knew a lot of the details of Gilderoy Lockhart's life, his likes and dislikes, the people he knew, and worst of all, his nearly total obsession with everything to do with building up his fame in the eyes of the Wizarding world.

I sighed, remembering that my time in the Room of Requirement was nearly at an end. While I now had the equivalent of a very studious fourth-year student's magical education, along with a good deal of hands-on magical practice, especially dueling practice, I still felt inadequate and ill-prepared to face the students and teachers at Hogwarts.

"It will be nearly time for me to leave the Come and Go Room and begin teaching," I told Boddy. "What day is it?"

"August thirty-first, Professor Lockhart, sir," Boddy said, and I flinched upon hearing the date. The last I remembered, it had been August 28. Three days gone! Tomorrow I would have to leave here and start playing the role of Gilderoy Lockhart in earnest.

Boddy must have read the anxiety in my expression, if not my thoughts, for he put a trembling hand to his lips and asked, "Does Professor Lockhart not feel ready to return to Hogwarts?"

I chuckled, not wanting him to get the impression I wasn't grateful for what he and his friends had done for me. "Well, truth be told, I'd like to have a do-over, Boddy. But never fear!" I pointed a finger heavenward, shaking it for emphasis. "Professor Gilderoy Lockhart is here! I'll make do as best I can, as I've always done!"

But Boddy was staring into the distance, seemingly distracted by his own thoughts. "Boddy," I said, trying to get his attention. Then, more sharply, "Boddy!"

Boddy's reverie was broken. "Umm — please excuse Boddy, Professor Lockhart," he said apologetically. "Boddy was just thinking about… do overs."

"Don't worry about it," I told him gently. "I'll get on fine, you'll see. Now be a good lad and bring me something to eat. I feel like it's been days since I've eaten." And of course, it had been.



Boddy returned shortly with a tray of roast beef sandwiches and potato chips (which are called "crisps" in Britain, I remembered) and a pitcher of pumpkin juice, and I wolfed down several in short order before the rumblings in my stomach subsided.

But after that, I felt kind of lost, not knowing what to do next. It was late afternoon on August 31 and in less than a day I was going to have to go back out into Hogwarts castle and pretend to be Gilderoy Lockhart, at least until I could figure out a way to get home.

And in case you're wondering _why_ I would even _want_ to go home, seeing as how I had been somehow transported from my normal non-magical reality into the Harry Potter universe, a dream come true for many Potter fans — well, let's just say I wasn't very keen on having what happened to Lockhart in the second book happen to _me_. Not that it necessarily _would_, mind you, but how would _I_ know what was and wasn't going to happen? The only guide I had was the Harry Potter series itself, and Lockhart meets a tragic (yet for him, fitting) fate. And I was in Lockhart's body. So no, I wasn't looking forward to being Obliviated, thank you very much!

I drank the last Everlasting Elixir I found in the potions case, figuring it would enhance the Lockhart memories I had recently absorbed, as well as my Pensieve activities and dueling practice of the past seven days. I tried to study several advanced magical texts, but I was just too distracted to get much out of them.

Bored (if you can believe that!), I wandered up and down the rows of bookcases, reading titles at random, wondering if anything would leap out at me (though hopefully not _literally_, I hoped, remembering _The_ _Monster Book of Monsters_). There were lots of good books here, books I would have loved to spend time going through, _if_ I had the time. Which I didn't, of course. For now, then, I'd just have to browse —

I halted, frowning, because the title on an old, dusty tome had jogged a memory within me: _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. If I recalled correctly, this was the book Hermione had taken from Dumbledore's Dark Arts stash in his office. I pulled the book off the shelf and thumbed through several pages. Hermione, as I recalled, considered this a "really awful book." I would have to take her word on it, because I didn't understand everything I was reading, but there were some nasty-looking spells in it. Including, I knew, the spell for making a Horcrux.

Not that I planned on _making_ one, of course, but I wanted the book, and perhaps a few others from the shelves, when I left this room. In case they might come in handy sometime.

By now I'd pretty much caught on to how things worked in the Room of Requirement, so I spent a minute or so looking around until I found an empty backpack (_rucksack_ in Britain) in a previously empty cabinet. I threw _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and a few other books into the rucksack, planning to take them with me when I left tomorrow morning.

Or afternoon. I wasn't really sure _when_ I was going to leave this room. I chewed a couple of fingernails down to the quick fretting over _that_. Trying to boost my morale, I practiced the _Expecto Patronum _spell, at last generating a glowing, shimmery fog that looked as if it was about to congeal into corporeal form but faded before it did. I'm not sure what it would have been but it wasn't very large; I thought it might be a cat, when I finally mastered the spell.

I lay down for a few minutes to rest my eyes and woke up the next morning hearing the haircut knock at the door. I cursed silently at falling asleep before I was ready, then went over to the door and let in Boddy, carrying a tray full of fried eggs, sausages and biscuits with gravy, my favorite breakfast.

"It is September first, Professor Lockhart, sir!" Boddy exclaimed happily as he set the tray on a nearby table and I seated myself in front of it. In spite of being terribly nervous about leaving the Room of Requirement; I dug into breakfast with gusto.

"When will the Hogwarts Express get here, Boddy?" I asked as someone else repeated the knock at the door; Boddy jumped up and answered it, taking a pitcher of milk from the house-elf who'd brought it. He poured a glassful of milk and placed it in front of me. "Thank you," I added, taking the glass and sipping from it. It was whole milk, ice-cold and delicious.

"The train will arrive by sunset, Professor Lockhart," Boddy answered. "The students are brought from the station in carriages, except for the first-years, who come across the lake in boats." Boddy suddenly looked abashed. "Pardon my foolish babbling, Professor Lockhart! You must know all of this, having attended Hogwarts yourself."

I shrugged as if it didn't matter. It was never very clear how long the train ride from King's Cross to Hogsmeade took. I also wondered why it took so long anyway; the Knight Bus, for example, seemed to be able to travel long distances in much less time. There must be a point to having all the students travel together on that long train ride from London into Scotland. I imagined the trip gave them time to talk and get used to each other before getting into the school environment.

Some time later, I had finished the eggs and biscuits, and was nibbling absently on a sausage when Boddy suddenly gave me a shrewd look, and asked, "Does Professor Lockhart feel ready to return to the Wizarding world and Hogwarts, sir?"

The question caught me unawares. "Probably not," I said candidly.

Surprisingly, the house-elf nodded knowingly, a smile suddenly present on his lips. "Boddy has a surprise for Professor Lockhart," he said, sounding almost conspiratorial.

"Oh, really?" I said, nonplussed even though I covered it with a dazzling smile of my own. "What is it?"

"Boddy will give it to Professor Lockhart when we leave the Come and Go Room," Boddy said slyly. "When Professor Lockhart is in his private quarters."

I laughed. "A carrot to tempt me out of here, eh? Well, I don't have much choice, really. But thank you, Boddy, I appreciate your help more than you can know."

I gathered up the rucksack of books; I'd also added a few other odds and ends to it that might come in handy, and followed Boddy out the door into the corridor, watching it fade into the wall as we walked away. We parted company at the first intersection we came to — Boddy would meet me at my quarters in a few minutes.

I'd scrawled a map, following Boddy's directions, to my quarters on a small piece of parchment showing where my quarters were. It was on the second floor (actually the 3rd floor), one floor up from where the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was; most of the teachers' quarters were on or near the same floor as the classes they taught.

I quickly realized, however, that _I couldn't find my way down to the second floor_! I must've spent a half-hour just trying to get down to the fourth floor — I couldn't find a damned down staircase. I recalled there were something like 142 staircases in the castle — it was one of the first facts mentioned about Hogwarts in the books — and I was starting to think I would have to walk every single one of them before I could find my way to my room. Having the Marauder's Map right now would be _very_ handy, but even Harry didn't get it from Fred and George until about the middle of the third book, during the second Hogsmeade visit.

It wasn't helping any, either, that several of the witches and wizards in the portraits hanging all over the castle kept giving me conflicting information about how to get around. I'm sure some of them were having great sport at my expense. I finally had to start ignoring them altogether, though I kept hearing titters and giggles behind me as I made my way slowly and uncertainly downward.

At last, weary from tramping up and down steps, I flopped into an ornately carved wooden chair sitting across from a dusty suit of rather badly-beaten armor to catch my breath. I had no idea what floor I was on. No one, apparently, in all the centuries this castle had been used as a school, had ever thought to label the floors near any of the staircases! Many of the doors I'd passed had numbers, or in some cases a description, either on the door or a nearby wall, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the numbers — one door I passed was numbered 312, but the next one down was 713.

"Pardon me?" I flinched violently as someone suddenly spoke, directly in front of me. I looked up into a silvery translucent view of the hallway, then jerked back, realizing I was looking _through_ something. No, through _someone_!

I jumped instantly to my feet, staring, amazed, at the semi-transparent man standing before me. A ghost, obviously, since I was able to see right through him. He wore an old, very outdated-looking tunic and pair of pants, as silvery as his own features, and now that we were face-to-face he seemed to recognize me.

"Ah," he said, surveying me somewhat coolly. "Gilderoy Lockhart, I presume." I nodded, almost forgetting to flash a dazzling smile at him, but the ghost appeared less than impressed.

"I am indeed _Professor_ Gilderoy Lockhart, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," I said with a small bow and flourish. "And you are — ?"

"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington," he replied stiffly. "Although I am surprised you've forgotten _me_, Lockhart."

My smile froze in place. From the cold disdain he was showing me, Nearly Headless Nick had no love lost for Gilderoy Lockhart. Inwardly I tried to sort out any of Lockhart's memories involving Nick. Nothing in particular was coming to mind, though I knew Nick pretty well from the books themselves.

Well, it was time to try some of the old Lockhart charm; with any luck, I could thaw out the ghostly cold shoulder Nick was giving me. "My dear fellow!" I exclaimed with an expansive bow toward him. "I sincerely hope that we can leave the past in the past, and let bygones be bygones. May I say, I've always considered knowing you one of the highlights of attending Hogwarts."

Nick, though still looking skeptical, let a smile flick across his silver-white lips. "Did you, really? As I recall, you were quite the rapscallion when you attended here twenty-odd years ago. Always into something or other, it seemed, with gaggles of young ladies chasing after you. You were quite dashing then, as I recall. Then, and now," he finished, giving me a knowing nod.

"Which I owe all to you, Sir Nicholas," I said, sincerity dripping from my voice. "You were always the very image of Wizardly chivalry to me."

"My dear fellow, really?" Nick seemed to glow at these words — he positively beamed at me. "I do try to be an example for students to follow, especially the young Gryffindors, you know," he added with a conspiratorial wink.

"Indeed, indeed!" I put a friendly hand on his shoulder (or actually, near where his shoulder was, as I felt my palm growing cold) and turned to walk down the hallway. Nick moved to float alongside me as I walked. "You were most instructive, good sir! Now, if I could prevail upon your kindness a moment longer."

"Please do," Nick said generously.

"It has been some years since I was here," I said, waving a hand to include the castle. "And my memory has become a bit rusty. Could you direct me, perhaps, to the personal quarters for the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

Nick was only too happy to show me the way down the various staircases to the second floor, expounding as we walked (well, I walked; he floated) on how much things had changed in the past several centuries. "Time, indeed, flies," he sighed as we approached a door labeled "Private." "Did you know," he added as we stopped in front of the door, "this is my _500__th_ year as a ghost here at Hogwarts?"

"Indeed?" I said. I recalled the Deathday celebration Nick held on Hallowe'en during the second book; it was a date that helped fix the timeline of the Harry Potter books early on in the series. Nick had died on October 31, 1492, meaning that the second book began on Harry's birthday: July 31, 1992. "Congratulations, my good fellow! Calls for a celebration, you know!"

Nick smiled at me again, and I returned it, tooth for tooth, thinking ironically how I was congratulating a dead man for 500 years of being a ghost. "Well," I said, nodding to the door before us. "I should get my things stowed away and prepare for the feast tonight. Again, many thanks for your help, Sir Nicholas."

"Anytime, dear fellow," Nick smiled. He turned and floated across the corridor and through the wall.

I slumped, able to relax again, and tried the door. It was locked. I thumped it in frustration until I realized that it was a perfect opportunity to use a spell I remembered Hermione casting on a similar occasion. Pulling out my wand, I pointed it at the lock and said softly, "_Alohomora_."

There was a _click_ and, trying the knob again, the door opened into the room. The room inside was dark, but I fixed that immediately by raising my wand and saying "_Lumos_," bathing the place in light. There were windows with heavy curtains, drawn tightly closed. I walked over and pulled them open, and sunlight flooded the room.

The place smelled remarkably clean and fresh; I guessed that Boddy or one of the other house-elves had freshened it up for me. Off in a corner were two large trunks; I wondered what was in them — why were they even here? There was a cuckoo clock on the wall —the time was 11:45. The day was nearly half-over already!

I realized just then that I had missed a golden opportunity to prepare for my time here. The Room of Requirement might have equipped me with clothing, vanity items, and Defense Against the Dark Arts equipment, everything I needed to effectively pull of the charade of being Gilderoy Lockhart. I still had time to return to the Room and get what I needed, but the time I had wasted finding my way here galled me. I would be nice, I though, if I could lay my hands on the Marauder's Map. It would be on its way here now, in either Fred or George Weasley's trunk. I wondered how much they use it nowadays, seeing as how they gave to Harry in his third year after realizing his need was greater than theirs. That, and the fact that they'd already memorized all of its secrets.

It was pointless to think about such things, though — I needed it _now_, not in six hours, when it would be too late. I also doubted if I could convince Boddy to Apparate to the Hogwarts Express and steal it out of Fred or George's trunk. Bringing me food and other creature comforts in the Room of Requirement was one thing, but asking him to actually steal from another wizard, especially after my outrage over the Potion of Recollection? Even on the chance he might do it if I convinced him of my need, the idea of stealing from Fred and George Weasley didn't appeal to me.

I went on a quick tour of my quarters. It was simple but spacious enough even for Gilderoy's taste. There was ample wall area for the many portraits of himself (although I had none with me, of course); the bed was large and comfortable looking, with a large wardrobe in the corner and adequate floor space for another; the real Gilderoy would need at least two more wardrobes for the amount of clothes he liked to keep on hand. The bathroom was quite modern, and sported both a tub and a shower as well as a toilet and bidet. _High living_, I thought with a smile. There was a spacious vanity and large mirror, with generous cabinet space. Back in the living area was a great wooden desk with what seemed like dozens of cubbyhole spaces and large drawers. Opening one, I found it had been enchanted to hold several times its apparent size in folders. Wizard space! All in all, a very nice place for me to spend the next ten months. Unless I found a way home before then.

There was a _crack_ and Boddy appeared, his face pulled into a frown. "Where has Professor Lockhart been?" he said in a mildly nettled tone of voice. "It has been hours since Boddy left the Come and Go room."

I was a bit more than nettled, having lost several hours wandering through the castle trying to get here, but decided it would accomplish little to blame Boddy for my lack of familiarity with the school. "I'm afraid I've been lost for the past few hours," I said ruefully. "Until Nearly Headless Nick took pity on me and helped me find my room."

"Ah! Poor Professor Lockhart!" Boddy's entire demeanor changed, startling me. As I watched in stunned surprise, he fell to his knees in front of me, groveling apologies. "Forgive Boddy's foolish anger, Professor Lockhart! Boddy should have realized it might be difficult for him to find this room after all these years and your lost memories!"

I stooped over and took his arm, quickly pulling him to his feet. "No need to apologize to me, Boddy," I said roughly, though I was angrier at myself than at him. And angry at the type of society that had so victimized these poor souls. I could see, now, why Hermione had become incensed the moment she learned the plight of house-elves. "It was my fault," I finished.

"No, Professor Lockhart!" Boddy protested. "You must not say that — !"

"Don't contradict me," I cut over him, but stopped, chagrinned by my own attitude. Boddy started to speak, but I put up a hand for silence, then flopped wearily into a nearby overstuffed chair. I motioned for Boddy to come to where I was. Slowly he approached, looking apprehensive, as if he thought I planned to mete out some type of punishment.

I leaned forward to look him directly in the eye. Trying to defuse the tension between us, I smiled and asked, "So where's the present you were going to give me?"

"Sir — sir is not angry with Boddy?" the house-elf stammered, his great green eyes blinking nervously.

"No, of course not, Boddy. I appreciate everything you've done for me," I said. I really did, too. "I'm just nervous about how things are going to go now that classes will be starting shortly." Tomorrow, in fact! And I had done _nothing_ in the past month to prepare lesson plans, syllabuses, or _whatever_ the hell a Hogwarts teacher was supposed to do!

But a grin was beginning to spread across the house-elf's face. "Boddy thinks Professor Lockhart will like his surprise, then." He reached into the tablecloth he was wearing like a toga and —

— and there was a sudden knock at the door to my quarters and it began to swing inward. Both Boddy and I turned to see who was coming in, and I automatically shouted "Wait!" to stop whoever it was from entering. At the same moment there was a _crack_ in my ear as Boddy disappeared.

The door swung open anyway as I leapt to me feet. Into the room stepped a tall, thin man, dressed in long black robes; a man, whose sallow features looked almost as white as Nearly Headless Nick's had, compared to the blackness of his robes and the long, black hair that framed his face. There could be no doubt in my mind who this was.

Severus Snape.

We regarded each other silently for several moments; his face was an expressionless mask while I had adopted one of cheerful surprise, although inwardly, I was angered that he had simply walked into my private quarters without waiting for permission. "Professor Snape!" I exclaimed, as if I was delighted to have him barge in upon me. "To what do I owe the honor of this unannounced visit to my humble quarters?"

"I was walking by and thought I heard voices coming from these quarters," he said, managing to sound both annoyed and indifferent. "You did not check in with either Professor McGonagall or myself when you arrived, Lockhart." His voice wasn't much like that of Alan Rickman, who portrayed him in the movies — it was more nasal, making him sound less serious than he obviously took himself.

"Sorry, Severus old chap," I said jauntily. I couldn't help myself — I _knew_ I wasn't going to like this man the moment I laid eyes on him, no matter _what_ side he was on in the war between Dumbledore and Voldemort. I couldn't resist baiting him, just a bit. "Lots of things to do today. You understand, I hope, my need to provide the best Defense Against the Dark Arts education I can."

Snape's eyes, black as midnight, narrowed slightly. "Quite," he said flatly. His eyes scanned the room. "There is somewhere here with you?" His tone made it more of an observation than a question — had he heard Boddy's voice before he entered the room?

"Nobody here but us chickens," I smiled innocently. Snape's eyes found mine and I felt them boring into my soul. No, really, that's what it felt like! I had stupidly overlooked the fact that the man was a master of Leglimency!

I had read about Occlumency in several books in the Room of Requirement, early on during my sojourn there. It was not a well-known discipline, and there were several schools of thought on how to approach it. The most common method seemed to be to empty one's mind of extraneous thoughts, to become like a blank slate, or like a mirror, and in that way allow any Leglimens attempting to discern your thoughts to find no conflicting emotions, no tell-tale apprehensions or doubts. I hastily attempted to let me emotions drain away.

Whether I was successful or not, I could not tell; after several moments Snape blinked and said, "I will inform the Deputy Headmistress you have arrived. Be in the Great Hall by 8 p.m. for the commencement of the Sorting Ceremony and the start-of-year feast." With a final sweep of his eyes around the room, Snape turned, his robes swirling around him, and swept out of the door. I walked over, removing my wand from my robe and magically locked the door after him, listening to his retreating footsteps.

No sooner did they fade into the distance than Boddy reappeared next to me, looking warily at the door. "That was very close," he said looking up at me. "Does Professor Lockhart think Professor Snape suspected us of communicating?"

"He may have believed someone else was here," I mused. "I don't know why he would suspect _you_ in particular, though, Boddy."

Boddy looked about the room carefully, as if he suspected — what? Someone to pop out of the woodwork? I followed his glances about the room. It was almost comical, as if we were meeting in some great, clandestine adventure. Which, come to think of it, I realized, in a way we _were_.

Again Boddy reached under the tablecloth covering him, this time bringing out a small silver hourglass attached to a long, thin loop of silver chain. It took me several moments to realize what it was, but when I did my eyes widened in surprise. It was a Time Turner, the very thing I'd been hoping to get ahold of!

"Where did you get this?" I exclaimed softly, taking it from him and sitting back down so he could watch as I examined it more closely. "These things are supposed to be guarded by the Ministry!"

"This one is Professor Dumbledore's," Boddy said, sounding proud of himself. "He keeps it in a special box in his office. As far as Boddy knows, it is the only one the Ministry of Magic has ever allowed a non-Auror or Ministry official to keep."

I looked at Boddy with a mixture of affection and exasperation. "And how did _you_ come to have it, Boddy? I am pretty sure Professor Dumbledore would not have simply handed this over to you, you know."

Boddy's great green eyes lowered contritely. "Professor Lockhart's need is great," he said, his already squeaky voice trembling. "Indeed, Professor Lockhart _must_ use the Time Turner, if he is to make everything right!"

"What do you mean?" I asked, now frowning. I wasn't following Boddy at all here.

"The memories Boddy returned to Professor Lockhart," the house-elf pointed to his head. "Some of them are still here. Professor Lockhart must keep some appointments, appointments that have already happened, weeks ago."

With a start I realized he was right. Harry first met Professor Lockhart at Flourish and Blotts a few weeks before school began, when Lockhart was in the Wizarding bookstore signing copies of his new autobiography, _Magical Me_. I had forgotten about that particular incident in _Chamber of Secrets_, although now its import came back to me with a vengeance. If I didn't go back and keep that appointment, we would never have that picture taken of us together, the one Lockhart thought would make the front page of the _Daily Prophet_!

More importantly, the events of the past would be altered, possibly changing what would happen afterwards. My best bet was to make sure what I did stayed as close to the book as possible, so I could be reasonably sure what would happen next. No one died during the events of the second book (not even Lockhart), so I only had to be concerned with what happened next year, when Harry and Ron take Lockhart to meet the Basilisk and he tries to Obliviate them, which backfires on him as he uses Ron's broken wand.

Accidentally meeting myself wouldn't be a problem: I'd spent the last month cooped up in the Room of Requirement. If I went back in time a few weeks to make it to that book-signing, I could use the extra time to prepare for the school year. Handing the Time Turner back to the house-elf, I asked, "Do you know how to use this thing, Boddy?"

Boddy nodded, his large ears nearly poking me in the eyes. He took the Time Turner from me and held out the chain, as if inviting me to put my head through the links. I suppressed an urge to pull away — Boddy obviously meant me no harm — and leaned forward to accept the Time Turner around my neck.

Boddy held up the hourglass for me to examine its bottom side. I could see a small "H" showing there. "This shows how far the Time Turner will go backwards in time with each turn," he said. "It can also send people forward in time, but it is mostly used to go back.

"To change how far each turn will go back, sir must tap the bottom with his wand and say whether sir wants to use hours, days, weeks or years. The Ministry usually modifies Time Turners so that only special passwords allow them to be set for 'years,' but this Time Turner has no passwords on it." Boddy tapped the bottom with his finger and said, in his squeaky voice, "Weeks." We both watched as the "H" changed to a "W."

Boddy looked at me. "Is Professor Lockhart ready to go back?"

"'Once more, dear friends, unto the breach,'" I quoted, smiling at Boddy's confused expression, then added, "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Now, how far back do you think I should go?"

"_We_ should go, Professor Lockhart, sir," Boddy said in an insistent tone. You will need Boddy's help. After all —" Boddy tapped his forehead " — everything Professor Lockhart must do during the last month is in here."

I opened my mouth to protest, but realized he was right. I couldn't rely on my imperfect recollection of _Chamber of Secrets_ to get me where I would need to be. "Very well," I said, getting to my feet. I looped the chain around his shoulders. We both looked at the Time Turner, now held in my (admittedly trembling) hands. I glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall; it was about five minutes before noon. I held the Turner between us, mentally preparing myself for whatever happened, then jerked, startled, as the doorknob to my quarters jiggled again. Was Snape coming back? Time to act quickly, then!

"Here goes nothing," I muttered, giving the hourglass four quick turns in the "backwards" direction. I'd forgotten exactly what happened in the third book when Hermione and Harry go back to prevent the death of Buckbeak and to keep Harry's godfather Sirius Black from receiving a dementor's kiss, but the cozy room surrounding Boddy and me suddenly disappeared. It seemed as if the entire world had suddenly began to whirl around us in a blur of color and shapes. I felt Boddy clutch at my legs like a child, perhaps in fear, perhaps in amazement. Truth be told, I was as amazed as him.

I would like to say it was over in no time, but that would sound a bit facetious, as well as being untrue. The whirling lasted only a few seconds before it stopped and we found ourselves still in the same room; much changed, however, from when we had just left. Sheets and dust now covered the furniture; the curtains were drawn over the windows again, making the room seem dark even though we had left at nearly noon. The quarters now looked exactly as one would expect them to, if they had been closed up for several months during the summer. Boddy and I now had four weeks to do over again: it was just before noon on August 4, 1992.


	3. Chapter 3

_This_ time around, I hoped, the month of August would afford me more of a chance to put Lockhart's day-to-day affairs in order before I began teaching at Hogwarts. Boddy, who had agreed to accompany me back to my North London townhouse where I could make arrangements with Mrs. Witherhams for the Flourish and Blotts book signing, Disapparated after agreeing to meet me outside the gates of the school, so we could figure out transportation arrangements.

I found the main staircase and made my way out of the school through the Entrance Hall and front doors, then up the path leading to the gates which were, inconveniently, chained shut. Smiling, I took out my wand and pointed it at the padlock holding the chains and said, confidently, "_Alohomora_!" The padlock, however, remained locked. W_hat the hell_?

"Not many wizards can defeat Professor Dumbledore's enchantments, Professor Lockhart," Boddy said matter-of-factly, as he appeared next to me.

"I hope this doesn't mean I'm trapped here for the month anyway," I replied, sarcastically.

Boddy offered me his small, gnarled hand, and I took it. A moment later we were standing across the street from my home in London. I looked around quickly, but there was no one else on the street, despite the fact that it was a warm, sunny day just after noon.

"Boddy —" I'd turned to look at the house elf, but he had disappeared again. "Damn," I muttered. I'd wanted to talk to him before he left. But —

"Boddy is still here, sir," a squeaky voice somewhere nearby whispered. "Boddy will stay Disillusioned while Professor Lockhart talks with his housekeeper. She should not see Boddy — she might ask questions about Boddy, but Boddy must not be seen away from Hogwarts." I nodded and walked over to the door.

Of course it was locked as well, but this time, instead of pulling out my wand to try _Alohomora_ again, I simply pressed the doorbell. "Mrs. Witherhams," I called, rapping on the door for good measure. "Gilderoy is home!"

"_Gilderoy_? Well, it's about time!" I heard the woman say as her footsteps rapidly approached the door. "Where have you been the past five days?! I've been dreadfully worried!" The door yanked open and she glared at me crossly, snapping, "You might've at least sent an owl to let me know where you —" She suddenly stopped and let out an earsplitting scream.

I shrank back, covering my ears? "What the hell's wrong?" I shouted.

"_Wrong_?" she practically shrieked. "_Wrong?! What the bloody hell's happened to your hair, Gilderoy?_" Grabbing my arm, she pulled me inside with surprising strength.

I broke free of her as she flung the door closed. "Nothing's happened to it!" I shouted back at her.

"Nothing?! You look like something the cat's dragged in! Just _look_ at yourself!" Grabbing my arm again, she spun me a quarter-turn to face a nearby mirror on the wall.

It was the first time I'd seen myself in a mirror in days — weeks, probably. I didn't see much there to be alarmed at, although my hair was a bit more stringy than Gilderoy might have liked.

"Do you realize how _worried_ I've been about you?" Mrs. Witherhams was saying. I started to feel guilty about not getting in touch with her somehow, but she continued, "I've had to cancel six of your appointments already this week! What were you _thinking_?!

"_And_, you went off and left your curlers here," Mrs. Witherhams said accusingly. "I've told you, and told you, you have to use them _every day_ when you're out in public! You didn't make the cover of _Witch Weekly_ twelve times in the last ten years on just your charming smile, you know."

"Now come along, you," and she actually grabbed my ear, though not very hard, and I allowed her to lead me upstairs, where she drew me a hot bath and afterwards spent the afternoon redoing my hair back into a luxurious golden mane. It seemed almost to float through the air as I tossed my head back and forth. It did feel much better. I hardly dared mention however, during all of this, that I was considering having it shortened back some, to a more conventional (for me) length, hanging to just above my collar rather than below my shoulders.

I probably couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise anyway, as Mrs. Witherhams had begun talking nonstop since leading me upstairs. She was evidently Lockhart's secretary as well as his housekeeper; she'd begun filling me in on details about my books, including the latest one, my autobiography _Magical Me_. It was quite the money spinner, it seemed, and was flying off the shelves. Which only deepened the mystery, from my perspective, of why Lockhart wanted to begin teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts when his books were doing so well. From what Mrs. Witherhams was saying, "I" was donating money to Wizarding causes left and right, though really it was she alone who decided how much to give and which magical organization got it. I got the impression that she favored witch-oriented organizations.

The Ministry had its hooks into Lockhart as well, from the sound of things, because she mentioned dropping some gold into Fudge's pocket, as well as a few names I didn't recognize. It didn't concern me much, truthfully, and I wasn't going to rock the boat with her while she was content to manage the money side of things. In any event, I was going to have my hands full this month preparing for Hogwarts.

Or so I thought. When I mentioned getting some extra parchment so I would have enough to draw up lesson plans for school, the old lady stared as if I'd gone completely loony. "Ha!" she practically laughed in my face. "_You_, draw up lesson plans?! Don't be daft, you silly boy! Just leave that to me." She went back to working on my hair.

"But," I protested, "Shouldn't I at least give them a read before hand, to make sure I understand them?" I asked, trying to make it seem like I wasn't questioning _her_, but what would be in the plans themselves.

"Suit yourself," she said with an indifferent sniff. "Never fear, my lad: they'll pass muster with Professor Dumbledore, you needn't trouble yourself about that!" She was silent for several seconds as she finished with another curler. "But I don't know why you'd want to fill your head with all that useless teacher's poppycock anyway — you've never cared about such things, you know."

Well, I _didn't_ know, but I was beginning to get the picture. Lockhart, it seemed, was the image, set out in the Wizarding world for all to admire, for adoring witches to swoon and goggle over as they read of his adventures and worshipped him from afar, while his housekeeper and accountant, Mrs. Witherhams, provided the brains behind the duo. It was something I was going to have to look into much more closely.

But not tonight, as, once I had been cleaned, coiffed and fed, she promptly shooed me off to bed, saying I would need my beauty rest, as tomorrow I had a meeting with the Witches' Auxiliary Group for the Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Removal company. After hearing nothing but her voice for the past six hours, I was more than ready to be shot of her presence for a few hours!

Also, alone in my room, I would have a chance to talk to Boddy again. I hadn't seen a piece of him since being dragged back into my house by Mrs. Witherhams, and there was something I wanted him to do for me, if possible. "Boddy," I said softly, once I was sure my housekeep had gone downstairs and had closed the door to my room. "Can you hear me?"

_Crack_. "Of course, Professor Lockhart, I — eaayaa!" Boddy, who'd appeared in front of me, leapt backwards as he looked up at me. "What has happened to Professor Lockhart's hair!" he gasped in horror, pointing fearfully toward my head.

"Oh!" I laughed nervously, realizing he'd never seen me done up like this. I'd never used curlers in the Room of Requirement — it had seemed unnecessary as well as uncomfortable. "This is how I keep my hair looking good, Boddy."

Boddy regarded me skeptically. "Professor Lockhart makes himself look good by wrapping his hair around pieces of wood?"

I snorted laughter. Put that way, it _did_ sound ridiculous. "From the mouth of babes," I chuckled, putting a hand on his tablecloth-covered shoulder. I drew him nearer so I could talk softly.

"I do have something I'd like you to do, Boddy," I said quietly, giving him my best "this is important" look.

Boddy's eyes instantly lit with joy. "Yes, Professor Lockhart!" he said happily. "Anything you wish!"

"My housekeeper," I said, speaking slowly so as to appear hesitant about my request. "She is a fine housekeeper, Boddy, and I'm very fond of her. But… there is certain information I would like access to without her knowing about that fact."

"And Professor Lockhart trusts Boddy to obtain that information for him?" Boddy said, happiness flooding into his voice. "Such an honor it is for Boddy to help Professor Lockhart!" Boddy's joy suddenly turned to confusion. "But, how is Boddy to get this information for Professor Lockhart?"

"Simple enough, my lad," I said easily. I'd managed to glean a lot of information about her and this house during the six hours she'd spent primping and fussing over my appearance. "There is a room off of the kitchen that leads to her private quarters. She keeps a desk in there, locked up, apparently, whenever she's not working at it.

It's not a big desk, Boddy," I continued encouragingly. "I think you should be able to bring it to me, once she's asleep. Do you think you can do that?" I figured, between Boddy's magic and my non-magical ability to locate relevant and important information quickly within a large pile of otherwise useless data (the usual state of my desk at work) I should be able to come up with the state of my financials in the Wizarding world. And, if I were lucky, I might even learn where I could lay my hands on some of Lockhart's gold. Anything might come in handy to help me get home.

Boddy nodded obediently and disappeared. After a minute of waiting, I stood and walked to one of the book cases, glancing idly through the titles there, hoping any moment now Boddy and Mrs. Witherhams' desk would reappear in my room.

But, it was not to be that evening. Boddy reappeared some ten minutes later to tell me that Mrs. Witherhams was still working at the desk. By the time I finally fell asleep, around two a.m., she was still awake and working. I told Boddy we would try again the next night, but as things turned out I wasn't able to get the chance for some time.

The next few weeks were the busiest time I've experienced in my life. _Ever_. Mrs. Witherhams had my appearances mapped out in exquisite detail; she and I whisked from function to function, where I flashed my brilliant smile at dozens of witches besotted with my looks, cooed over squalling babies or yipping poodles or (more frequently in the Wizarding world) hooting owls or in some cases, falcons or eagles, birds also infrequently chosen by wizards as pets.

Every night I returned to the North London townhouse with Mrs. Witherhams, exhausted from the day's activities, to feast sumptuously upon the dinner that always seemed to be waiting for us when we arrived. Afterwards I would down a snifter or two of fine brandy, a habit Mrs. Witherhams insisted I continue even though I myself don't have much interest in strong drink. The brandy, however, had a pleasant, peachy flavor, and I found myself so soothed and calmed by only a few sips that it became a welcome respite to the daily flurry of activity. My head would barely touch the pillows of my bed before I found myself fast asleep until the next morning, when the whirlwind of appointments and events would begin all over again.

At some point in all this I realized that my plans for the month had become completely subverted by all the running around and hand waving I was engaging in as Gilderoy Lockhart, the Façade. I had hardly worked a spell in all this time; indeed, the last one I could remember performing was the failed _Alohomora_ on the gates of Hogwarts.

The day of the Flourish and Blotts book signing I awoke and went through my morning routine as usual: shower, shave, remove curlers and don the robe Mrs. Witherhams had laid out for me the night before (blue, in this case), then went downstairs for a light breakfast. I would have preferred a heartier one most days, but "the old lady" (as I was beginning to call her, privately) insisted I not get weighed down with a lot of food first thing in the morning. At least, I thought, touching the back of my newly-exposed neck, she hadn't fought me very hard when I insisted, a week ago, that we shorten my hair to a manageable length before I started teaching. Perhaps it had made sense to her, at last, that it would be easier for me to take care of hair that hung closer to my ears than to my shoulders.

After scarfing down a roll and a glass of pumpkin juice, I followed Mrs. Witherhams meekly into the front room. I learned, as we perused today's itinerary, I would be meeting at 10:00 a.m. with the publishing company Obscurus Books to discuss a possible new book, _Gilderoy Lockhart's Fantastic Beasts and Where I Found Them_. Then, from 12:30 to 4:30 p.m. I would be at Flourish & Blotts signing copies of _Magical Me_. I was really going to have to read that autobiography sometime, I though, amusing myself.

"What's so funny," Mrs. Witherhams scowled as I chuckled to myself.

"Nothing," I said airily. "I'm just in a good mood this morning."

"Good," she sniffed. "Stay that way. Your fans like it better when you're happy. You sell more books with honey than with vinegar, you know. Now turn around," she ordered, "and we'll get you ready to go."

I turned around dutifully, and felt her wand tap me on the back of the head. A feeling of cold ran down my head and along my body, the feeling of a Disillusionment Charm that, rather than rendering me invisible, made me look just a bit more commonplace than the blond-haired, blue-eyed visage of Gilderoy Lockhart.

She then threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, which promptly flared up and turned a swirling emerald green. Stepping into the flames, I said loudly, "Obscurus Books!" and began spinning very fast. Keeping my arms close to my side until the spinning stopped, I stepped out into the lobby of Obscurus Books, where a young, prim-faced witch seated behind a desk nodded briskly at me and pointed to a divan. I nodded pleasantly to her (she was quite lovely, a fair sight prettier than my erstwhile companion of the last two weeks) and sat down to watch Mrs. Witherhams appear in the emerald flames a few moments later.

The business meeting was, as usual, boring beyond belief. Like any meeting where I didn't have much, if any, input, I usually sat playing with some small object or other I'd brought with me, or skimmed through a magazine like _Witch Weekly_ or sometimes, _Noble Wizard_,_ the Magazine for Pure-Bloods_. The articles in it usually spotlighted an incredibly rich pureblood wizard or family and the luxuries they immersed themselves in. Coincidentally, the issue I had picked up before walking into the meeting featured the Malfoys: Lucius, standing proud and haughty in front of his magnificent mansion in Wiltshire; Narcissa, a thin smile on her pale features, standing in her ornately decorated drawing room. There was no picture of their son, Draco, but his bedroom was shown, furnished with a richly-carved four-poster bed and the finest wardrobe I'd ever seen. The room was lined in green, with many Slytherin posters and snakelike items placed conspicuously about the room. Interestingly, there was no desk for studying. Bored now even with the magazine, I closed it and began listening to the meeting itself.

Mrs. Witherhams was leading the publishers of Obscurus Books down the Galleon-lined road that inevitably led to the many arrangements we had throughout Britain that was spinning God knows how much money into our coffers, money I barely saw a penny (or rather, a Knut) of. They weren't stupid, of course, just greedy, and not really interested in how I came by my information so long as I (or _we_, since it seemed Mrs. Witherhams was as much a part of this money-spinning deal as I was) came up with the goods.

Scamander, the original author of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, had never come up with another tome to rival it. He'd retired decades ago, it turned out, and married a younger witch named Porpentia. They'd had a son, Rolf, who was working at the Ministry of Magic in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as his father had. Rolf apparently had no writing ambition of his own, and the publishers, desperate for a successful title, had turned to Lockhart. Mrs. Witherhams was very shrewdly negotiating a lucrative deal for us.

The only problem I saw with all this, of course, was that I had no intention of stealing some poor wizard beast expert's memory in order to produce this book. But, that wasn't even water under the bridge yet, so I'd worry about that when I came to it.

After the meeting, we left, not by Floo powder but by leg power, walking toward Flourish & Blotts, only a few doors away. On the way, we stopped at a street café for a sandwich and something to drink; I gathered Mrs. Witherhams was even hungrier than I was, as she bolted down her fish and chips like a starved wolf, all the while chiding me to chew my own food properly and avoid looking like I was eating too fast.

By the time we finished lunch there was a bottleneck forming around nearby Flourish & Blotts. Looking up, I saw the reason why: there was a large banner stretched across the upper windows of the shop, reading:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

_MAGICAL ME_

today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

"Come on," Mrs. Witherhams said, laying out just enough money on the café table to cover the cost of the meal (no tip), and we walked into a nearby alley between buildings and into a nondescript door with a sign saying Deliveries posted next to it. Inside was a storage area filled with piles of books and two younger wizards busily unpacking copies of _Magical Me_. They stared at us as we passed by, Mrs. Witherhams ignoring them, me nodding with a pleasant smile, and walked into the back of the store proper where the manager, a harassed-looking wizard, gave us a weary welcome.

"They've been waiting for hours," he told Mrs. Witherhams. "Every witch in England must be waiting outside our shop right now!"

"Good!" Mrs. Witherhams said, a gleam of smug satisfaction in her eyes. "We'll give them a show, then, won't we, Gilderoy?"

"Of course," I said, knowing better than to disagree with her by now, and started to walk out to the table, but she put a hand on my arm to stop me.

"Let's make you a bit more presentable first," she said, tapping me on the head with her wand. I felt the Disillusionment Charm fading away as a warm feeling oozed down from my head and along my sides. "There you are, right as rain again!" she said, giving me a few smart pats on the arm. "Work your magic, Gilderoy," she said, pointing to the signing table with a smirk.

I sighed and nodded to the manager, who walked out to make my introduction. This was always the part I tried to forget, to let my "inner Lockhart" take over and run on autopilot so I could avoid thinking about how smarmy and shallow I was being, pretending to enjoy the company of witches and businessmen (businesswizards?) who fawned and pandered over me. Today was going to be particularly difficult as well, since I knew at some point I was supposed to see a young Harry Potter in the crowd and treat him patronizingly to bolster my own image while everyone else looked on, envious of his luck at being favored by me. Favor had nothing to do with it, I thought disgustedly. Lockhart would have been acting on pure greed and self-interest.

But that was something I _didn't_ have to do! No, I was pretty sure I could be much more gracious and much less self-serving while still getting that front-page photograph for the _Daily Prophet_, keeping Mrs. Witherhams happy and preserving the timeline which, I hoped, was still intact. After all, nobody knew I was also up in the Room of Requirement learning magic at breakneck speed. _If_ I ever got a chance to use it again, I reminded myself pointedly!

As long as everything seemed to be going pretty much according to plan, I knew, I would have a pretty good idea what to expect during the year. Supposing, of course, that I could remember the storyline of _Chamber of Secrets_ well enough to stay in synch with it.

The manager introduced me and I walked out to the table, smiling and waving and _Being Gilderoy Lockhart_. It was simple enough, if I didn't think about it too much. I smiled at the people in line, mostly witches, who gushed and gibbered their thanks for my signature, who tittered at my flattery of their hair or smile, who blushed crimson as I touched their cheeks or gave a friendly pat on their shoulder or arm. All the while, a photographer for the _Prophet_, a small, irritating man carrying an impossibly complicated camera that emitted blinding flashes of light and huge clouds of purple smoke, hovered around the table, snapping photographs and snarling at people to stay out of his way. I tried to ignore him; he was thoroughly unpleasant, although he'd probably been specifically instructed not to snarl at _me_, because the few times I frowned at him he backed away.

Finally, however, I heard him snap, "Out of the way, there!" at someone in the crowd, a gangly red-haired boy whom I looked up at, realized it was Ron Weasley at the last moment as he leaned over to rub his foot and then I saw —

— Harry Potter, and —

— a curious sensation took over inside me. I leaped to my feet and shouted, "It _can't_ be Harry Potter?" all the while horrified at what I was doing. Everything I had planned to _not_ do, I was doing anyway! I was forcing Harry to have his picture taken with me, all the while telling him it would make the front page. Next, I was handing Harry a copy of _Magical Me_ I had just signed with the large peacock-plume pen I used for all my autographs; I was announcing to the crowd my new position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, to the cheers and applause of everyone in the room (except Harry, who seemed overwhelmed by it all, and Ron, who was still rubbing his foot with a sour expression on his face). Finally, I was giving Harry, and announcing to the crowd at the same time, that he was getting _all_ of my books, free of charge, and sending him on his way. I tried to retake my seat at the table, but children and witches of all ages were jostling about, some crowding toward me, while others were trying to get a better look at Harry, who I saw was now standing close to Arthur Weasley; Lucius Malfoy was in front of Arthur, facing my way. I caught his eye for a moment and realized he'd been staring at me. Why was he looking at _me_? I suddenly knew what was about to happen: Malfoy was about to sneak Riddle's diary into Ginny's cauldron by placing it inside her Transfiguration textbook.

A moment later Mr. Weasley lunged at Malfoy, knocking him into a shelf full of books, bringing them down on both of them. They were still grappling when Hagrid waded into the shower of falling books and pulled them apart. Malfoy then spoke briefly to Ginny, thrusting the book he'd taken from her cauldron back inside it; he motioned for Draco to follow him and swept out of the store.

An assistant hurried past me to talk to the Weasleys while another clerk, a pretty young witch with large blue eyes, made sure I was okay. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Lockhart!" she exclaimed, while I watched with some bemusement as the assistant tried to keep them from leaving the shop, then realized Hagrid's size and thought better of it. "I hope this won't ruin your book signing!" the clerk said worriedly, frowning at the troupe of red-headed people now leaving the shop with Hagrid and Harry.

"Not at all, my dear, not at all," I heard myself saying. "It will make splendid publicity! 'Customers brawl for chance to own an autographed copy of Gilderoy Lockhart's new autobiography, _Magical Me!' _" The clerk looked at me, dumbfounded, as I swayed drunkenly for a moment, then straightened, feeling as if I'd regained control of myself once again. Glancing ahead, I saw one of the twins, either Fred or George, looking at me as if he'd heard what I'd just said — there was a look of cool dislike on his face, and he turned and followed the rest of the Weasleys out of the shop.

_What had come over me_, I wondered as I resumed smiling toothily at simpering witches and under-awed children while I signed their copies of my book. It was as if I'd had no control over my actions. As if I'd been…

Of course! _The_ _Imperius Curse_!

The implications of _that _thought, however, chilled me to the bone. Only one person, I realized, would have both the motivation and opportunity to curse me: My housekeeper, Mrs. Witherhams!

The book signing lasted until after 5:00 p.m.; people just kept coming and coming, and I was in no position to contradict Mrs. Witherhams, who kept waving for me to continue signing and smiling. Finally, the last witch walked from the store, ogling my signature, the manager waved his wand and the **Open** sign in the door flipped around to show its **Closed** side to the street, and the doors closed and latched by themselves.

The manager thanked me and Mrs. Witherhams for a very profitable (he actually said "interesting," but I heard the dollar signs in his voice) afternoon and led us to his office where we used his fireplace and a pinch of Floo powder to make our way home. I collapsed onto the couch in my sitting room, spent.

Mrs. Witherhams beamed at me from the doorway. I'm sure she was seeing dollar signs as well. (I probably should say "Galleon signs" rather than "dollar signs," but I'd never paid much attention to what the Wizarding world actually used to indicate money — I had no idea what a "Galleon sign" looked like.) "Well," she purred, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile spread across her lips. "That was a day well spent, wasn't it, Gilderoy?"

"Quite," I said tiredly, pinching my nose between closed eyes, adding, "A penny spent and a pound earned." Mrs. Witherhams laughed, although I didn't, thinking that what I now believed had happened to me today was not the first time such a situation had occurred — it was just the first time I had tried to fight it. I was furious but kept my voice carefully neutral. What I was thinking of her at the moment certainly wasn't suitable for a Harry Potter book, I can tell you! "What are we having for dinner tonight?" I asked, opening my eyes but not quite looking at her — I didn't want her to see the least hint of hatred in my eyes.

"Cornish pastie," she said, turning to walk back into the kitchen. "With beans and salad," she added, calling over her shoulder. When she finally called me into dinner, I found a plateful of food that I dug into — I was absolutely ravenous. Some time, and two extra helpings later, I was stuffed, quite literally. Thank goodness a distended belly doesn't show much under a wizard's robe! I wondered, briefly, how wizards in general, and Lockhart in particular, could put away meals like this on a daily basis (well, at least _some_ of them could) remain so thin. I thought about the Weasley family: Mr. Weasley and all of his sons were thin — well, Charlie and the twins were supposed to be stocky, but they were nowhere near as fat as, say, Horace Slughorn. Ron and Percy were gangly, and Bill's frame was athletic, if I remembered correctly. I wandered back into the front room and collapsed onto the sofa to let dinner digest, and promptly fell asleep.

I awoke some time later to find Mrs. Witherhams bent over me with a glass of peach brandy in her hand. "Fancy a sip?" she asked, and I took the snifter automatically. The drink felt good on my tongue, warming and making me feel even more relaxed than the unexpected nap had. Mrs. Witherhams sat across from me in a chair, a brandy in her own hand, and chattered about the day's activities. _Magical Me_ was a great success across Britain; Obscurus Books were very much looking forward to seeing my work on the _Fantastic Beasts_ book. I nodded absently, not really listening as I'd heard it all before, and not really caring, in the first place, because I wasn't going to write such a book in the second place.

Mrs. Witherhams finally stopped talking and led me upstairs to my room, where she conjured up the partition I normally undressed behind and got into my night gown. She took my clothes for that day and came back with a robe for the next one, a gold one. I wondered, foggily, where we might be going tomorrow that such a robe would be considered tasteful.

Then it was into bed and under the covers, snuggled warmly in place and feeling completely relaxed and at peace. Mrs. Witherhams stroked my hair for several moments, crooning words I couldn't make out, then walked to the door, where a wave of her wand extinguished the lamps on the walls. "Goodnight, Gilderoy," I heard her say. "Sleep tight."

"Mmmm mmm," I murmured in response. The door clicked shut.

Leaning over the side of the bed, I spit out the brandy I'd kept in my mouth rather than swallow it. Given that I hadn't fallen asleep by now, which was usually the case, I thought it was safe to say there was some concoction in the brandy that would have put me out, had I drank it.

"Boddy," I whispered, but there was still no answer. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of the house-elf since I returned home, and I was beginning to suspect he wasn't able to enter the house because of some magical protection set on it by the housekeeper.

I went over to the wardrobe and found a hatbox I'd hidden beneath several others; inside, I had secreted several potion vials I'd taken from the Room of Requirement. I took out an Invigoration Draught and drained it in three gulps, immediately beginning to feel better as I threw off the effects of the heavy meal and whatever soporific I might have swallowed when the brandy was in my mouth. After I was sure Mrs. Witherhams was asleep (and I hoped she _would_ go to sleep tonight — she was sometimes up to all hours, as I'd found out the night I'd intended to search her desk with Boddy's help), I would sneak out of my room and see if the house-elf was still somewhere about. I hoped so — he had no reason to be at Hogwarts now, not with his younger self doing yeoman's duty for my younger self, up in the _Room of Requirement_.

_Ding-da-ding-ding_.

My ears perked immediately at the sound of the front doorbell. _Who would be calling at _this_ hour_, I wondered. I hurried to the door, trying to turn the knob softly and found it locked. Grabbing my wand from the table where Mrs. Witherhams had placed it, and hoping for the best, I pointed it at the door and whispered, "_Alohomora_." There was a soft _click_ and this time the doorknob turned easily in my grasp. I slid into the hallway, silent as a cat, and made my way to the railing surrounding the staircase. I heard the door shut softly and Mrs. Witherhams voice, saying, "In here, please, Lucius."

_Lucius_?

A very bad feeling had come over me upon hearing that name. It _couldn't_ be Lucius Malfoy, could it? I racked my memory for a connection between the elder Malfoy and Lockhart, but there was nothing I could recall other than them both being in the second book. I padded silently down the staircase, listening carefully for anything else that would help me figure out who would come here in the middle of the night to talk to my housekeeper. Oh, and my secretary, and accountant, and quite probably, the person who'd put me under an Imperius Curse, I kept reminding myself.

Wishing for an Invisibility Cloak like Harry's, I crept forward from the base of the stairs. I'd made it about halfway down the hall when I realized that the white night gown I was wearing would be conspicuous even in the dim candlelight Mrs. Witherhams still kept burning. Hoping I could perform the spell nonverbally, I tapped my robe and thought the incantation for the Color Change Charm. My night gown promptly turned a bright purple, and I hastily tapped it again, this time concentrating even harder on "black." The second time was successful, and I repeated the spell on my nightcap.

At the edge of the doorway, I slid my face forward slowly until, in the dim candlelight, I saw a dark traveling cloak with a magnificent mane of blond hair atop it, and a pale silhouette with sharp features.

It could be no one else but Lucius Malfoy. Here, in my house!


	4. Chapter 4

"I was pleased to see you seemed to have little difficulty getting Lockhart the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at the school," Malfoy was saying to Mrs. Witherhams, who was facing him and therefore the doorway. I did not dare venture any further lest she see me even in my now-blackened nightwear.

"It was fortunate he made a favorable impression on Dumbledore," my housekeeper replied, disdain dripping from her voice. "Gilderoy woke up in a strange mood that morning; he seemed to have thrown off the Imperius Curse somehow."

"Indeed?" Malfoy seemed surprised as well. "I didn't think the man had it in him. We were in the same year at school, and he never seemed serious about anything beyond his looks or his retinue of syncophants."

"I have since restored the Imperius Curse on him," Mrs. Witherhams added.

_I knew it_! I thought.

"How are the preparations for his Hogwarts tenure proceeding?" Malfoy asked, his tone businesslike.

"The lesson plans are nearly complete," Witherhams replied, her tone just as crisp as Malfoy's. "Neither Dumbledore, McGonagall, nor the board of governors will have cause to question them. I doubt if poor Gilderoy will be able to follow them, but that's not expected, is it?"

"Of course not," Malfoy said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Dumbledore has fought the good fight these many years now, but the lack of continuity in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has kept the ranks of Aurors and other do-gooder types low. Meanwhile, we have seen to it that proper Wizarding families have kept up their Dark studies."

My mouth fell open. So _that's_ what was going on! Voldemort, unable to secure the job for himself from Dumbledore, to bore from within, had cursed the position so that Dumbledore had to keep bringing in a new teacher each year! I didn't remember exactly when Voldemort was supposed to have cursed the DADA position, but it was supposed to have been after Dumbledore turned him down for the job, about 10 years after he left Hogwarts.

"Is there," Witherhams began, and I could tell she was uncomfortable asking this next question, "any further information about the spell?"

"No," Malfoy snapped. "I have punished the house-elf severely — it was evident he misplaced the object." I heard Witherhams murmur her agreement.

"Do you wish to reattempt the spell?" Witherhams asked.

"No," Malfoy replied again. "I have made other arrangements for the object, something that should cause quite a stir. Even, I hope, bring an end to the school itself."

"Good," Witherhams agreed.

I suddenly realized they must be talking about Tom Riddle's diary. Malfoy had placed it in Ginny's cauldron when he encountered them on the day of the book signing at Flourish and Blotts. Opening the Chamber of Secrets had almost caused the school to close, fifty years before. Malfoy probably hoped it would be permanent this time. And, even if it didn't happen, having Gilderoy Lockhart teaching there was almost as good as having no Defense teacher at all.

Or so they _thought_!

"This will be my last visit here," Malfoy was saying. I could hear him moving toward the doorway; I turned and ran as silently as possible to the staircase, ducking around it just as he stepped into the hallway, Witherhams right behind him. "Be sure Lockhart makes it to the rest of his appointments this month and then to Hogwarts. After that, you should have little difficulty directing his income to where it will do _us_ the most good."

"I have little difficulty now," I heard Witherhams say after her short, barking laugh, which I always took to indicate derision. "He is so trusting, so caught up in himself, it is quite as simple as taking sweets from a baby." I swallowed a growl of anger that threatened to escape from my throat.

"You will receive my owl after the first of the month for the location of our next meeting," Malfoy told her, and I heard the front door open. "We will expect a full report on his financials at that time." The door swung shut and I padded silently up the stairs and back to my room, seething.

I suppose it would be safe to say that, while I still didn't care much for Gilderoy Lockhart, I certainly sympathized with him for the situation he would have found himself in, if he were here!

I took a moment to relock the door, in case Witherhams decided to check on me, then sat down on the side of my bed to consider my predicament. My housekeeper, who was also my secretary and my accountant, was actually a Death Eater, or at least in league with them, and was funneling my assets away to support their efforts to undermine the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts to Hogwarts students! And now Lucius Malfoy planned to close the school down completely, using Riddle's diary! I (or rather, Lockhart) was a pawn in this struggle, and was being sent to school to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts _precisely_ because I was supposed to be so wretchedly _bad_ at it! Add to that the unforeseen complication that the man in Lockhart's skin wasn't even a wizard at all, but a Muggle who'd never cast a spell in his life until a month ago, and who'd learned everything he knew about magic from reading books until he'd been thrown into this reality. It really was almost enough to make me run, screaming in terror, to Dumbledore for help.

Almost.

In the "plus" column, I _did_ have information Lockhart himself probably had no clue about: I _knew_ my housekeeper was helping Death Eaters; I _knew_ there was a monster deep in the bowels of Hogwarts school, waiting to get out, waiting to kill; I _knew_ that the diary in Ginny Weasley's possession was a Horcrux, with the power to take over and control her body, even to possess her completely if the enchantment was allowed to progress to its completion. Also, I knew, even now, a lot more magic than Lockhart had seemed to in the books. I had trained for several weeks with house-elves, who could be much more than the meek, docile servants the Wizarding world believed them to be.

I did _not_ want to simply give up and hand this problem over to Dumbledore, as simple as that would be to do. The problem was, I didn't know yet what the best course of action was, and _that_, more than anything else, was making me hesitate.

There were also, I knew, some reasons _not_ to trust Dumbledore himself. Some Harry Potter fan fiction authors had written Dumbledore as being actually evil, or at least, as indifferent to Harry's fate in comparison with his own agendas. I did not think Rowling's book as written bore out either of these hypotheses. I _did_ think that Dumbledore considered himself one of, if not _the_, smartest wizard on the planet. He was bound to think, as most smart people do, that their ideas are naturally the best ones to follow. What I couldn't be sure of, if I went to him with all the information I had, was whether he could actually solve my and all of his other problems just by sending me home. From my perspective, if someone was going to do their damnedest to get me home and fail, that someone was going to be _me_.

Suddenly I heard a scratching at the door. I leaped silently under the covers, expecting Witherhams to come through at any moment, but there was only silence for some time. Then came a soft but familiar tapping, as if someone were gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door: _Shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits_. Only this and nothing more.

With a grin I leaped from the bed, grabbed my wand from the table near the door, silently unlocked the door and flung it open. Before me stood Boddy, his eyes luminous in the pale moonlight that had managed to creep into my room from the window opposite the door.

"Boddy," I said with mock severity. "Where have you been these past few weeks? Hiding in the cellar?"

"Trapped there, sir," Boddy said, sounding miserable. "Professor Lockart's housekeeper is a bad lady. The morning after the Professor returned, she began casting spells that would harm anyone trying to appear or disappear in this home, including house-elves. Very Dark, very bad, magic. The only place the spells were not cast were in the lowest level, where the food is stored. Boddy had to stay there at night, and come out during the day, when the housekeeper and Professor Lockhart were gone, to search the house for the information Professor Lockhart wants."

"You've been doing that? Have you found anything?" I whispered at once, hopeful.

Boddy nodded. "Boddy has watched the housekeeper at night, when she works late, through a hole in the ceiling of the room she works in late at night. Boddy watches as she writes figures in ledgers and counts the gold she keeps in a special drawer in the desk."

We'd stood too long in the hallway for my comfort. "Come into the bedroom, Boddy, before she hears us!"

But Boddy shook his head emphatically no, his long ears twisting comically. "There are additional spells on Professor Lockhart's rooms, spells that will set off alarms if anyone but he or the housekeeper goes in there. Boddy dares not enter."

I cursed under my breath. "Can we remove the spell?"

"Without the proper countercurse, sir, failure to remove it completely will trip the alarm, revealing the intruder's presence to her."

I looked around, trying to come up with some way for Boddy to get around the spell and come in my room. Witherhams' room was at the other end of the hall, but if we were in the hall when she came upstairs, she couldn't fail to see us. All the other rooms up here were empty, and therefore useless.

_Oh_, _wait a minute_! _Am I a wizard, or what_??

The room opposite mine was empty, I knew. I tapped the doorknob, unlocking it, then walked inside, lighting my wand as I did so. "Is this room okay?" I asked Boddy. Boddy walked up to the doorsill, looking at it carefully before stepping inside. "It is safe, Professor Lockhart." The room smelled dusty and unused; I could see by my wand's light that the only footprints on the floor were mine and Boddy's. This room would do perfectly as a temporary refuge.

"Good," I said. "Stay here, I'll be right back." Closing the door behind me, I went back into my bedroom and spent a few moments locating something similar in shape to a human. A similar shape would help with the transfiguration spell I was about to attempt.

I found the perfect item on my desk: a small Gilderoy Lockhart statue, of all things, that had been a feather duster holder given away as a promotional item with copies of _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests_, according to Lockhart's memories. Lockhart had thrown away the feather duster but kept the statue of himself.

Setting the statue on the floor, I flourished my wand, casting the Growth Charm (similar to the Engorgement Charm, but the enchanted item keeps the object's proportions better) on the statue until it was the same height as me. It was a good likeness but the paint was a little too shiny. I added a couple of quick Color Charms to adjust the facial colors, and changed the robe color to white, to match the color of my nightgown.

The next spell would be the tricky one. "_Piertotum_ _Locomotor_!" I whispered, carefully, and the statue looked at me, smiled, and yawned hugely. I pointed with my wand at the bed and the statue climbed obediently into it, the mattress springs creaking under the added weight. "Go to sleep," I said, and the statue closed its eyes and began to snore softly. It wasn't really asleep, of course, but merely mimicking the actions I'd commanded. Which would be good enough (I hoped!) if Witherhams happened to look in on me.

I looked back at the statue of myself now seeming to sleep peacefully in my bed, shaking my head in wonderment. The damnedest thing about all of this, I supposed, was that _it worked_! Back in the real universe, you could say the same exact words and wave your Harry Potter ™ brand wand until you were blue in the face, and not a blessed thing would happen. But _here_…here there was _magic_.

Pulling the door to my room shut, I turned the key in the lock and went across the hall. Very softly I rapped out the haircut knock and entered the room, where a nervous-looking Boddy waited anxiously for me.

I conjured up a chair for myself and sat down. "We need to find a way to get into that desk," I said to Boddy. "If you could just teleport it up here —"

"Boddy cannot," the house-elf protested. "Boddy cannot Apparate into or out of this house, the Dark magic protections are too strong."

"You could go down and float it out, somehow," I suggested. "A Hover Charm —"

But Boddy was shaking his head again. "That room has the same detection charms as in Professor Lockhart's room. If Boddy even works magic across the room they will be detected."

"Dammit," I swore. "That old bat's thought of everything."

Boddy looked surprised. "Not _everything_, Professor Lockhart."

"What do you mean?" I asked , wondering what loophole he saw.

"_You_ can move the desk, Professor Lockhart," Boddy pointed out.

"Me?" It was my turn to be surprised.

"The detection spell will allow any wizard who lives in this house to perform magic."

"But that would mean I could —" I stopped, feeling a bit sheepish. Witherhams probably didn't expect _me_ to use any magic more complicated than a hair-grooming charm. After all, I thought bitterly, I was supposed to be incapable of just about _any_ magic, wasn't I?

"Great," I said. "Now all we need is for her to go to sleep."

"The housekeeper will have gone to sleep by now, Professor Lockhart," Boddy said confidently.

"How do you know that?"

"When Boddy was in the cellar a few nights ago," the house-elf began. "The housekeeper came down and Boddy hid where Boddy could watch what she was doing. She took two bottles of brandy from one of the cases." _Brandy_? Now Boddy had my undivided attention.

"The housekeeper brought two decanters down with her, one with a white plug," Boddy continued. "The other, a red plug. She decanted the bottles, then poured a potion into the decanter with the red plug. Then she brought the decanters upstairs to the kitchen. Boddy found the decanters the next day, while Professor Lockhart and the housekeeper were gone."

"What did you do with them?" I asked, a huge grin on my face.

Boddy moved his hands back and forth in front of himself. "Boddy moved the decanters, and switched the plugs."

"So _she_ drank the drugged brandy tonight?" I asked, elated. Boddy nodded. "Hot damn!" I exulted, ignoring the look of uncomprehension on Boddy's face.

Witherhams was indeed out cold, having drunk the brandy she'd intended for me. I found her, snoring, on the sofa in the front room. Presumably she'd gone back in there after Malfoy had left, sat down, and fell asleep.

"How long will the potion last?" I asked Boddy.

"The housekeeper usually prepares brandies for Professor Lockhart and herself at 9:00 p.m. every night," Boddy reported. "There is a delayed reaction: she puts Professor Lockhart in bed before 10:00 p.m., and expects sir to awaken by 9:00 a.m."

Hmm, and it was after midnight now… We would have to move fast: there was no guarantee that she would drink the brandy again tomorrow night. In fact, I would expect her to throw out both decanters once she realized that she, not I, had gone to sleep early that night.

Moving her desk was easy enough: I floated it out of her room with a Levitation Charm, moving it into the kitchen, which Boddy could move around in without tripping the detection alarms.

That was the easy part. The hard part was getting past the traps Witherhams had placed on the desk locks. Or, it would have been, if she had secured it against house-elf intrusion as well as wizards. However, since she'd obviously expected that the room traps would cover that, including any attempt to move it by house-elf magic, Boddy was able to get it open with relative ease. Then, a sweep of the interior having revealed no other traps, I went to work.

The first thing I found, not even hidden but laying out in the open, once the cover had been opened, was an accountancy ledger book with the name

Gilderoy Lockhart

written in gilded script across the center of the cover. I opened it and found a dizzying array of deposits, withdrawals, and notations for special fees. The balance varied between six digits down as little as 100 Galleons at one point. (I learned, at least, that the symbol for Galleon is **Γ**, the Greek letter _Gamma_.) The current balance was 925 Galleons, 15 Sickles and 12 Knuts.

Somehow, I didn't feel this was an accurate picture of my finances.

Digging deeper with a few magical revelation spells, I found a hidden compartment that opened with a snap of Boddy's fingers. Inside were several bags of Galleons; I estimated there were two or three hundred Galleons altogether. There were also several ledgers dealing with income deriving from Lockhart's books and other interests. Most of the books were being published by Whizz Hard in Diagon Alley, London. Each ledger had a notation on the inside front cover, a number and the letters "GWB," which confused me for a bit — I couldn't fathom why Witherhams would have the initials for a future (in this reality) President of the United States inside an accountancy ledger, until I realized the it must refer to a vault number at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The amount of gold that was tallied up for each of these vaults was astounding. There were also number notations in the regular Lockhart ledger that tied back to the numbers of the vaults in these ledgers.

By my calculations, based on the different ledgers, Lockhart was worth about **Γ**2,600,000, give or take, distributed among six different vaults in Gringotts. I hoped we could find the keys to those vaults somewhere in this desk. It took Boddy and me several hours of puzzling, revelation spellwork, and a fair amount of luck, but we finally located a secret compartment that Boddy finally sprung open with an obscure magical phrase that seemed oddly familiar somehow, "Walpurgis." Inside I found a silk purse that contained six gold keys, each with a number on it corresponding to a number from the ledgers.

Using the _Geminio_ spell, I made copies of each of the keys, then dropped the copies into the silk purse, placing the originals in a pocket in my night gown. I also made a duplicate of each ledger, tossing them into a spare folder I found in the desk, then packed the bags of Galleons (less a small bag of the gold coins, which I kept for future use), the original ledgers and the silk purse with the duplicate keys back where I had found them, leaving the Lockhart ledger out where I had found it, then had Boddy restore the lock; I then floated the desk back into Witherhams' room exactly where I'd found it.

It was my intention to go to Gringotts that very morning and open a new vault, transferring whatever gold I found in those six vaults into my new one and making sure that only Gilderoy Lockhart had access to it!

A significant obstacle still remained, however — how to get to Gringotts, transfer the gold, get back to London and hide the key before Witherhams woke up and figured out she'd slipped herself a mickey? It was a poser, as the British say.

I thought and thought furiously, but I couldn't see a way to do it. I had a Draught of Living Death up in my supply of potions, but giving her that would only delay the inevitable for a day — she'd wake up and eventually realize she was 24 hours behind, the amount of time a normal dose of Living Death works. Plus, Witherhams handled all my business — if I showed up without her, our business partners might become curious or even suspicious, and it would get back to her. One way or another, it seemed, I was just out of time.

Hmm. Out of_ time_? Maybe not!

"Boddy," I turned to the house-elf with a hopeful expression on my face. "Do you by any chance still have the Time Turner with you?"

"Yes, Professor Lockhart," Boddy reached under his tablecloth toga and pulled the device out from under it. "It has not left Boddy's neck since Professor Lockhart returned it to Boddy after coming to the past."

"Very good," I said, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "I think we can make use of it once more."

"Professor Lockhart must be careful!" Boddy said urgently, his great round eyes growing even larger with worry. "It is very dangerous to tamper too much with the flow of time. Even Professor Dumbledore has never used this Time Turner."

"How do you know that?" I asked, amused.

"We house-elves can feel the magic in objects like this," Boddy said, holding and looking at the Time Turner reverently, as if it were a relic of Dumbledore himself. "Professor Dumbledore has studied this most extensively, but he has never used it to move through time itself — Boddy would know if he did."

Interesting. But something else Boddy had said concerned me. "Will Professor Dumbledore be able to tell the Time Turner has been used?" I asked, a frown creasing my forehead.

Boddy looked up at me with an almost amused expression. "Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Professor Lockhart. Surely he could, if any wizard can."

Well, we would just have to take that risk, I decided, especially since we'd used it once already. Briefly, I outlined my plan to Boddy. To my great relief, he didn't question it, or my sanity. At least not directly. "It will be very dangerous, Professor Lockhart," he said, after I had finished explaining it.

"But can you _do_ it, Boddy?" I pressed him.

"Boddy will do it!" the house-elf nodded vigorously, his long ears bobbing back and forth. "Professor Lockhart can count on Boddy!"

It was now about a quarter before eight in the morning. We straightened up everything as best we could, back to where it had originally been before this intelligence-gathering expedition began. Grabbing the folder of copied ledgers and original vault keys, I had Boddy float the unconscious body of Witherhams upstairs and down the hallway to the spare room across from mine. Boddy reached for the doorknob, but I stopped him, then gave the special knock on the door. After a few seconds, I nodded to Boddy, and we went inside.

I conjured up a chintz lounge chair and Boddy floated the Death Eater's unconscious body into it. From my bedroom, I fetched one of the vials of Living Death potion from my hatbox stash and returned to the empty room. Meanwhile, Boddy had gone to the kitchen, returning with a pitcher of water and some bread, a few hunks of cheese and meat for sandwiches. For my plan to work, Witherhams would be shut up in this room until the effects of the Draught of Living Death were almost worn off.

With Boddy holding her jaw open and her nose pinched closed, I poured the liquid down her throat, making sure she swallowed every drop. Her already sleeping form relaxed even more, if possible; she seemed to stop breathing, and I could not detect a pulse or any sign of respiration when checking her vitals. "So far, so good," I said softly, winking at Boddy, who smiled in reply, though a bit uncertainly.

The tricky part was yet to come, however. A little after eight, we heard movement out in the hall. Boddy looked at me nervously; I held a finger to my lips, signaling for quiet, at the same time taking out my wand, just in case. There was a fumbling at the door, and for a moment I feared we might be undone. Then, there came a familiar tapping: _shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits_, on the door. A moment of silence, then we heard my bedroom door open and shut.

"Perfect," I whispered. Going to the door, I opened it carefully. I had thought to see the Time Turner on the floor; my heart raced when I saw nothing there, but I found it a moment later, hung upon the doorknob. So that's what the fumbling there had been about!

I shut the door and locked it, adding _Colloportus_ to the lock to make it even more secure (although only for a moment, from other wizards) and returned to show the Time Turner to Dobby. "Put this around your neck," I said, handing it to him. "And give me yours."

Boddy passed me his Time Turner and donned mine. "Now," I said, settling down in a newly-conjured chair for myself. "We wait for Witherhams to wake up."

I went over the ledgers while we waited. Around nine a.m. there was a commotion in the hallway when we heard footsteps pounding up the staircase and came running frantically up to my bedroom door, then the voice of Mrs. Witherhams (I glanced quickly over at the nearby chair where she was still slumped, unconscious) shrieking at me to get up immediately or we'd be late for our appointments that day, then dashing away again. A minute or two later my bedroom door opened and there was the sound of footsteps padding into the bathroom, quickly followed by the sound of the shower running. Not long afterwards the bedroom door opened and closed again, twice, and more footsteps walking down the hall told me my future self was ready for the day's business. Not long afterwards there was the sound of Witherhams voice berating Lockhart for being so slow, and the slam of the front door.

It was now the moment of truth. Taking a deep breath, I reminded Boddy, "I'll be back later tonight. Until then, remember: keep the door locked, keep _her_ —" I pointed to Witherhams' still form " — unconscious, and keep quiet, no matter what you hear, until you hear _this_," I rapped the shave-and-a-haircut knock on the door once more. "Have you got that, Boddy?"

"Yes, Professor Lockhart, sir," Boddy nodded emphatically. "Boddy will do as Professor Lockhart commands!"

I gathered up the ledgers and keys in the folder, unlocked the door, and with a final nod to Boddy made my way downstairs and out the front door.


	5. Chapter 5

Now, once outside my house, I realized I finally had to deal with a dilemma: how should I get to Diagon Alley. I knew I wasn't that far away from the Leaky Cauldron; it was somewhere on Charing Cross Road, but I didn't trust myself to Apparate there. In fact, I didn't trust myself to Apparate at all! There had been no way to practice it, even within the Room of Requirement, as long as Dumbledore's magical charms against it were still in place within the castle and school grounds. I still knew a way to get there, however. I raised my wand in the air —

— and jumped back as a violently purple triple-decker bus appeared with a deafening BANG, right in front of me: the Knight Bus. The door of the bus flew open and a young, purple-uniformed conductor leapt out.

Pulling a card from his pocket, the conductor, a scrawny, pimply-faced youth, began reading. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out yer wand hand, step on board, an' we can take you anywhere you want to go."

"Good morning, Stan," I said pleasantly, with a brilliant smile lighting up my face (and, I hoped, his day). My plan was to keep him off-balance. I hoped he wouldn't recognize my face, but even if he did, I doubted anyone would believe Gilderoy Lockhart actually rode on the _Knight Bus_.

"Good mornin'," Stan replied automatically, then looked me over quizzically, frowning. "'Ere now, 'ow d'you know 'oo I am?"

"Your fame precedes you, good fellow!" I replied enthusiastically, clapping a hand on his shoulder and turning him around to lead me onto the Bus. "Stan Shunpike, famous conductor of the Knight Bus." I caught sight of Ernie, the driver, eyeing me suspiciously, and quickly added, "And his equally famous driver, "Ernie, um —"

"What's me an' Ern got to be famous aboot?" Stan interrupted, saving me the embarrassment of having forgotten Ernie's last name. "Besides," he added. "This is me first day on the job."

"Well, you gentlemen are doing a heck of a job getting stranded witches and wizards from place to place so far today," I said smoothly. "You're performing a valuable service for the Wizarding world!"

"Yeah," Stan said, considering the idea. "Is that right, Ern?"

"Ar," Ernie said over his shoulder, waiting to hear where the Bus was headed next.

With Ernie's approval, Stan was apparently convinced. "Yeah," he agreed, now enthusiastic. "Right you are, er —" Stan looked at me, prompting with his expression for my name.

"Oh, sorry!" I said, as if it had slipped my mind. "Harry Potter," I said without thinking, reaching out to shake Stan's hand. His expression went quizzical once again.

"'Arry Potter?" Stan said doubtfully. "I though choo was a kid."

"Oh, not _that_ Harry Potter!" I said with a laugh, covering my mistake. "Oh, goodness me, no! I get that all the time, though. No, just a strange coincidence of fate, that The Boy Who Lived and I share the same name."

"Oh," Stan said, nodding uncertainly. "So, 'Arry — where you headed, then?"

"Diagon Alley," I smiled. There was a tremendous BANG and the Bus seemed to leap into high gear. I let go of Stan's hand to grab frantically for something to keep myself from falling to the floor. I was righting myself when Stan jerked a thumb out the window.

"'Ere you go," he said. "That'll be three Sickles."

I'd grabbed a handful of Galleons out of the compartment in Witherhams' desk (well, they were _mine_, weren't they, at least technically). Gathering up the folder, which had fallen to the floor during my efforts to stay on my feet, I pulled one out of the pouch I'd put them in, tossed it to Stan, and said, "Keep the change — a tip for prompt service."

Stan goggled at the payment, showing it at Ernie and beaming at me in delight. "Thanks, 'Arry Potter! You're an okay bloke!"

I smiled and threw them a casual salute, then stepped down off the Bus and went up to the entrance of a grubby-looking pub, nestled inconspicuously between a book shop on one side and a record shop on the other. I'd worried whether I'd be able to see it at all, but it had been plain enough when I looked for it.

I walked inside, hoping to inconspicuously make my way on through to the back courtyard and the entrance to Diagon Alley. But no sooner had I closed the door and turned back to the room than a dead silence fell inside the bar. The barman, a bald fellow who didn't look like he had a tooth in his head, gave me a suspicious stare. That must be Tom, I recalled. Most of the other customers were staring at me with blank or suspicious looks as well — whether from recognition or lack of it, I couldn't tell. No one seemed to be dressed as expensively as me, something I hadn't considered at all about the Wizarding world. I was used to everyone being in relatively nice clothing, but everyone here looked like Remus Lupin's poor cousins — there were plenty of threadbare shirts and blouses, patched pants and scuffed, ragged shoes. I smiled pleasantly, hoping to get through this without incident.

"Good morning, everyone. Pleasant day, isn't it?" I pointed to the back of the pub, where I hoped the courtyard was. "I'm just, er, passing through."

Wending my way through the tables, all eyes in the place upon me, I followed a little sign that said "Exit" through a doorway and into the courtyard beyond.

I was never sure of this part in the books: just where did one start counting to find the brick that, by tapping three times, would open the entrance to Diagon Alley? And was it _two up and three across_ or vice versa? Staring at the bricks above the trash cans, however, I noticed a small group of them that were a slightly different color than the rest. I opted to try three up and two across first, and tapped the brick three times in quick succession. The brick quivered, then wiggled, then seemed to merge with nearby bricks as a hole grew outward until an archway had formed in the courtyard wall. Across the top of the archway a larger capstone had appeared with the words

_**Diagon Alley**_

carved into the stone. I hadn't remembered that from the books, but it made for a nice touch.

Passing through the archway, I beheld a sunny, brightly decorated row of shops before me, wares of all types spread out into the street, which curved out of view about a block away. All of this was both brand new and eerily familiar to me, as if I had been here many times, but a lifetime ago. Walking slowly down past the shops, I saw Eeylops Owl Emporium, the Apothecary shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Flourish & Blott's, where I'd been only a couple of days ago and seen Harry Potter. Finally, several stores beyond this, I came upon a towering white building that dwarfed the shops standing around it: Gringotts Wizarding Bank, my first objective of the day.

Smiling (a bit nervously) at the short, swarthy goblin who bowed and opened the bronze door to the bank as I approached, I went inside and past another set of goblins, through the second set of silver doors inside to the bank proper. Inside was a huge, marbled hall containing a long counter with what looked like over a hundred goblins sitting behind it, waiting on the throng of wizards who were coming and going through the doors behind me, as well as other doors lining the hall. I was amazed at the size of the place: one did not get a true sense of the size of Gringotts simply by reading the books. Looking up, I saw there were glowing orbs floating above us, providing light; there did not seem to be a window in the place. I could imagine that security here, implied by the warning at the entrance, was very tight.

"May I help you, sir?" I looked down, startled, at a goblin who had appeared at my feet. I wasn't sure if he'd Apparated there but I didn't think goblins could Apparate. He had a sharp, clever-looking face, with the usual black, twirled beard on his chin.

"I believe so, my good fellow," I said pleasantly, dropping back into Lockhart's easy, by-now familiar way of speaking. "I would like to open a new vault."

"This way, sir." The goblin led me to a counter where another goblin watched our approach. "Griphook," the goblin behind me said importantly, as I reached the counter. "See that Mr. Lockhart gets whatever he needs."

So, I'd been recognized. Well, that wasn't altogether unwanted — especially if it got me a bit of preferential treatment. After all, I _did_ keep quite a few Galleons here!

"What may I do for you today, sir?" Griphook was familiar to me as well: he was the goblin who'd taken Harry Potter to his vault in the first book; he'd also helped Harry, Ron and Hermione break into Gringotts in the final book after Harry saved him from Malfoy Manor.

"I'd like to open a new vault, please," I repeated.

"What will you be storing in the vault, sir?" Griphook inquired, noticing I seemed to be carrying only a folder.

"I'm going to transfer gold from other vaults into the new one," I said, hefting the folder in my arms.

The goblin was gathering several pieces of parchment from various nearby drawers. "How much gold, sir?" he said absently, beginning to write on the parchment.

"All of it," I said. I cleared my throat and added, "About two million, six hundred thousand Galleons."

Griphook turned slowly to look at me from under raised eyebrows, his expression clearly one of confusion and some annoyance. There was a period of uncomfortable silence. "Is there some reason," the goblin finally said, trying to sound patient, "_why_ you need to move the gold from your current vaults to a new one, Mr. Lockhart?"

"Security reasons," I said in a low, almost conspiratorial tone.

"Our vaults," Griphook pointed out, quite reasonably I thought, "are the most secure in the Wizarding world. No one has ever successfully broken into a Gringotts vault."

"Well, not yet," I said with a chipper smile.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Griphook looked affronted.

"Sorry," I said hastily. "Nevermind, it was a small joke. Look," I continued, trying to be as convincing as possible. "The security problem isn't your bank, it's my problem. My accountant," I said, lowering my voice again, "recently suffered a personal reversal of fortune and I'm afraid the temptation of so much money will prove to be too much for her. Do you take my meaning?"

The goblin nodded knowingly, a smirk on his swarthy face as he twirled his thin, black beard. "Ah, I understand completely. Do you have the keys for your current vaults?"

I produced the bag with the keys. Griphook studied them closely. "These appear to be in order." He nodded once again. "You've made duplicates of these, correct?"

"Yes," I said, surprised but not really shocked that he could tell. It was a goblin's business to know such things, after all, I surmised.

"Fortunate you didn't get them mixed up," Griphook said, placing several slips of parchment in front of me. "We accept nothing but the originals. Sign here for receipt of your new vault. You will wish to relinquish the old ones, yes?"

I nodded, and Griphook sighed, pulling out six more sets of forms. Fifteen minutes later, I had signed a few dozen more slips of parchment, handed over my original six keys, and was given a single new one in return.

"Will you wish to oversee the transfer personally, sir, or will a final inspection be sufficient?" Griphook finally asked, pushing a last piece of parchment in front of me.

"A final inspection," I decided. There was no need to watch all that gold shuttling back and forth, when I could have a look at it all in one go.

"Sign here, please," the goblin pointed at a line and I scrawled my name there. The sheet disappeared into a now-bulging folder of my business activities for the morning. "Would you care for something to drink while you're waiting, sir? A cup of tea?"

"A butterbeer," I said, feeling I'd earned it.

It took nearly an hour to finish transferring all the gold from the various vaults to my new one, number 647. I had finished the butterbeer long before then, enjoying the somewhat butterscotch taste that had a sharp edge to it, no doubt due to the alcoholic content.

Griphook led me through a door into a room with stone walls and a sloping floor covered with several small rail tracks. Griphook whistled and a cart whipped out of nowhere and stopped in front of us. Griphook motioned for me to climb in, then sat down opposite me. The cart hurtled away into the gloom.

I didn't bother trying to memorize the path taken; instead, I just looked around, enjoying the strangeness of the caverns and the speed of the cart along the tracks as it plunged deeper and deeper into the caverns. I enjoy roller coaster rides, too. At one point we rolled past the huge underground lake, making me think of the cave in the sixth book where Voldemort had hidden the locket Horcrux in an island in the middle of another underground lake.

A short while later the cart rolled to a stop and we disembarked. "The key," Griphook said, holding out a gnarled, long-fingered hand, and I passed it to him. Inserting it into the door, he unlocked it and pulled it open for me to look inside. "Inspect it, please, sir."

I leaned in and looked around, breathless. The vault reminded me of a scene out of a Scrooge McDuck cartoon: a vault literally filled with gold and silver coins. I imagined swimming around in all that precious metal, just like McDuck did — but the idea was of course absurd. Besides, if that much gold fell on top of me, it would crush me instantly.

Griphook produced a small clipboard with a piece of parchment on it. "Your receipt, sir," he said, holding it out to me and pointing to a line at the bottom. "Sign there, please."

I looked at the amount on the receipt: 2,614,250 Galleons, 15 Sickles and 23 Knuts. "Do I get a copy?" I asked as I signed.

"Of course," Griphook said, a bit irritated to be asked. Locking the door again, he gestured wordlessly at the cart and we hurtled back to the surface and he led me back into the marbled hallway.

I held out my hand for the key, but Griphook held up a long finger to stop me. Leading me back to the counter where I'd filled out the original forms, he asked, "One other matter to finish our business, sir: Who is to be on your approved list for access to your vault?"

I was confused for a moment, but quickly realized he wanted to know who else would be allowed access to my vault if they had the key. That wasn't a bad idea, I realized. I might have difficulty hiding the key back in London, especially if Witherhams checked the vaults and found they were emptied. I was still tempted to keep access for myself alone, but at the last moment I changed my mind and said, "Albus Dumbledore. And Harry Potter."

Griphook looked up sharply, staring at me for several moments but saying nothing, adding the two names to a separate piece of parchment and placing it in the folder with the other parchment sheets I'd filled out. "Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter have been added to your approved access list. Thank you, Mr. Lockhart, and have a pleasant day."

"Thank you, dear fellow. I will," I replied, in all sincerity, and got out of there.

Putting Dumbledore on my access list had given me an idea where I might be able to keep the key to the vault, since bringing it back home wasn't a good idea. Passing back through the Leaky Cauldron onto Charing Cross Road, I raised my wand once more and boarded the Knight Bus, this time headed to Hogwarts. Stan chatted me up quite a bit this time, obviously appreciative of the tip I'd left him and Ernie. Since the fare to Hogwarts was eleven Sickles, I handed Stan _three_ Galleons this time, so there wouldn't be an odd Sickle to split between them. Waving cheerfully at the door of the bus, I left Stan and Ernie goggling over their tips and stepped out onto the path leading up to the gates of Hogwarts, which this time, fortunately, were open.

Once inside the school, I found myself facing a new dilemma: how to find Dumbledore. His office would be no problem; I felt quite confident I could remember my way there from the Entrance Hall. The problem, of course, would be how to get up to his office without the password. I considered going to my room and leaving the key there, but decided I couldn't trust it being anywhere except with Dumbledore himself.

As I stood there pondering what to do, however, my problem solved itself: Dumbledore came into the Entrance Hall and, seeing me standing there, walked over to greet me. "Ah, Gilderoy! A pleasure to see you once more. Are you joining us for the school year?"

"Not just yet, Albus," I shook my head, a cheerful smile plastered across it. "I do, however, have a spot of business to take up with you."

"Ah. This way, please," Dumbledore said, gesturing toward the main staircase. I led the way to his office, smiling to myself as I wondered whether he was still testing me for some reason. Dumbledore tapped the gargoyle and it leapt aside once again, allowing us access to the spiral staircase leading up to his office.

After offering me a chair and a cup of tea, both of which I graciously accepted, Dumbledore leaned back, steepling his fingers on his chest, and asked, "Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Gilderoy?"

"A favor, sir," I said, in real seriousness; the better, I hoped, to convince him of my sincerity. "I would like to put something in your safekeeping."

"And what is that?" Dumbledore asked mildly.

"This," I said, producing my Gringotts key and placing it on the desk in front of him, "is the key to my vault at Gringotts." Dumbledore glanced at it for a moment, in polite interest, then returned his gaze to my face. "It contains all my assets. I'd like you to keep it while I'm teaching at Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's expression hadn't changed, but now he leaned forward and said in an equally serious tone, "Surely, Gilderoy, there are other ways for you to secure such an item."

It wasn't quite the response I'd expected. "Perhaps, Albus," I conceded. "But it would make me feel better, knowing it was in your care. In addition, I have added your name to the list of approved agents able to access the vault. With the key in your possession, of course," I added, waggling it in my hand.

"My dear fellow!" Dumbledore seemed calm even when surprised. "Why would you do such a thing? We have barely crossed paths before today — you and I have spoken not a hundred words together, although I do confess I have heard _you_ speak considerably more." There was a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes as he said this.

"No doubt," I smiled. "I can be quite verbose, when prompted to flights of self-aggrandizement. Nevertheless, my request stands."

Dumbledore sat silent for several seconds. I wasn't sure if he would do it, even now. That worried me; if I could not persuade him to hold the key in safekeeping, I wasn't sure what I would do next. If Witherhams figured out the gold was gone before I left the house in London, there was no telling what she might do, or who might be brought in to persuade _me_ to confess what I knew. Dumbledore's offhand remark about me staying here at Hogwarts from this point on was looking better and better every moment. I believed the school to be an excellent place to keep the key safe — it could, I now realized, keep _me_ safe as well.

"Your trust is laudable," Dumbledore finally spoke. "To give me access to your assets, and means to procure them, is very touching, Gilderoy. Especially," he added, "considering the recent lack of longevity in the position you are taking."

Dumbledore now leaned forward, looking at me carefully. "However, I must point out that such an action is also somewhat out of character for you. You have never seemed, at least in the public eye, to be interested in financial matters to the extent you show now."

I leaned forward as well. "What _have_ I seemed interested in, Albus?" I inquired.

"You have always been a keen promoter, if you will excuse my bluntness, of the unique phenomenon which is Gilderoy Lockhart," Dumbledore replied.

"Is there a problem with that?" I asked lightly, trying to defuse what might easily become an argument if Dumbledore pressed the point and I tried to defend myself. Normally, I wouldn't shy away from a good debate, but defending the pretentiousness of Gilderoy Lockhart's self-interest would leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

"It is, of course, your prerogative, Gilderoy," Dumbledore replied calmly as he steepled his fingers once again. "I merely point out your proclivity for self-protection as well as your seeming adeptness at self-promotion: giving me access to your assets is not an action consistent with keeping your business affairs private, as has been your wont."

I couldn't reproach his logic. "Superbly argued," I said, applauding softly, which Dumbledore acknowledged with an amused nod. "However, there is a simple explanation to this seeming paradox."

"And that is?" Dumbledore waited with polite expectation.

"That, simply, I am a new man." I spread my arms to show my openness and sincerity. "I have lately been somewhat less than enchanted with the role I've played for so long in the Wizarding world, gadding about getting into and extricating myself from countless dangers, and incessantly promoting myself as shamelessly as I have.

"To that end, then, I have decided to bring my knowledge here, to Hogwarts, and make it available to your students — and at the same time bring an end to the curse put by You-Know-Who on the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts." I waited for Dumbledore's reply.

"Once again, quite laudable, Gilderoy, if true," Dumbledore spoke quietly. "I will agree to your request, if you will honor one from me in return."

"Name it, Albus!" I said quickly.

"Be very careful you do not endanger any of the students in this school while you are here," the headmaster said, looking at me quite seriously. "I am quite insistent upon this point, Gilderoy. Especially as you are known to be somewhat reckless in your spell-casting." I started to protest (even though I suspected he was correct) but Dumbledore held up a hand, silencing me before I could speak.

"No need to protest your innocence, Gilderoy — I quite apologize for my bluntness. Understand, however, that I will not tolerate a careless disregard for the students in my care. Especially," Dumbledore's eyes bored into mine, "in the case of Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter?" I echoed. "What are you thinking, Albus?"

"Your pictures were in the _Daily Prophet_ just the other day," Dumbledore said, and I heard some irritation in his voice. "You and Harry Potter, together at your book signing at Flourish and Blotts. The poor lad looked a bit out of place in such a public spectacle."

"I did not mean for it to be like that," I admitted. I really hadn't, but I'd been under the Imperius Curse at the time and couldn't control myself. I didn't think the time was right, however, to let Dumbledore in on that little secret. "I got a bit carried away when I saw him, is all. I will be more forbearing in the future, Albus."

"Splendid!" Dumbledore replied, beaming. Taking the key I had placed on his desk, he said, "I will make sure this is kept in a safe place. Whenever you wish it back, Gilderoy, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Albus," I said, standing and offering Dumbledore my hand. He shook it gently and I turned to go.

"One other thing," the old man said suddenly. "When do you plan to join us permanently for the school year? As a new teacher, there will be some orientation meetings to help accustom you to the routine. It would be helpful if you were here a few days before the first."

"I should be able to arrange that, sir," I said with a somewhat bitter smile. "It may be even sooner than either of us think." Nodding to each other, I took my leave.

I left Hogwarts, but instead of calling for the Knight Bus, I made my way into Hogsmeade, the small town near the school that was the only all-wizarding village in Britain, according to the books.

I walked from one end of town to the other, nodding to the few townspeople I encountered, most of whom seemed pleased to see me. Hogsmeade didn't seem very different from any small town I'd ever been in, if you discounted the robes and pointed hats everyone was wearing, and didn't notice them appearing and disappearing as they walked in and out of the few shops along the main street.

I stopped in at Three Broomsticks to give my feet a rest and wet my whistle. I thought about trying some firewhiskey, but my disinclination toward alcohol prompted a more common-sense alternative: I settled for a bottle of butterbeer. Madame Rosemerta, the pub's owner, was indeed as buxom and comely as the books had painted her; I smiled silently, wondering what Ron Weasley had thought as he stared at her cleavage. I suspect she caught me staring as well. "I never expected to see the famous Gilderoy Lockhart in my pub," she said quietly as she set a second butterbeer down in front of me.

I smiled and took a sip of the buttery liquid before replying. "It's a nice place," I said, looking around the pub at the patrons scattered throughout it. "I could get used to a place like this."

"Really?" she said, leaning in a bit closer. I could smell a soft fragrance, the scent of flowers, coming from her. Her eyes were dark pools; I found them captivating. "Would a man like you really want to settle down in a place like this?"

"It depends," I said with a small shrug. "If the opportunity came along… the right person…"

She laughed throatily. "Men love to believe such things about themselves, don't they?" Clearly, she thought I was feeding her a line.

And I was, I suppose. It had been a long time since I could feel at ease talking to someone, especially in this body. Perhaps I was just reacting to Rosemerta's charm, but it felt comfortable sitting here, flirting with her. "If we believe it," I asked her with an engaging smile. "Wouldn't that mean we really think so?"

She ran a finger alongside my cheek. The sensation sent a momentary thrill through me: Rosemerta was quite pretty. "You might really believe it, as long as it was convenient for you to do so."

"For the right person, it could be convenient for a long time."

Rosemerta laughed musically. "You are a charmer," she said, almost accusingly, as if I really was hard for her to resist. "Come see me again after you've bought a house here. Or whenever you want a drink." She turned away to help another customer.

I found a table and nursed a few more bottles of butterbeer until it was time for dinner, then ordered a meal. I was in no great hurry to get home, as there was nothing else to do there anyway, until eight a.m. tomorrow morning.

A/N: Reviews appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

I didn't make it back to London until well after midnight. There wasn't much point, as far as I could see; I wasn't getting back into my home until Witherhams went to sleep, and she could be up until the wee hours of the morning. The only thing I was concerned with was how to tell when she'd gone to sleep.

If I'd been thinking before I left, I could have set up a way for Boddy to signal me once the old bat had gone to sleep. But I hadn't. Fortunately, the room Boddy and the (hopefully) still-unconscious Witherhams was in was at the back of the house, and there was a window I could look into. If I could find a way up to where it was, that is.

Fortunately, I was able to sort of pull myself up by my own bootstraps, so to speak, using the Levitation Charm. I wasn't sure if one could levitate oneself, but it worked so long as I maintained some concentration to keep myself aloft. Floating level with the window, I saw Boddy inside, dozing in the chair I'd conjured. Out of sight in the chintz chair was Witherhams. I rapped softly on the window.

There was no indication Boddy heard, however. I rapped again, a bit harder. And again, harder still. Then I pounded on the window. Finally I stopped, swearing under my breath. Obviously, there was an Imperturbable Charm on the window.

Briefly, I considered waking _myself_ up. After all, I should be asleep in my own bedroom, right across the hall from this room at the back of the house; the window across from the door to my room was only a few feet away.

Well, why not? The future version of me would know about and be expecting me, since _I_ would know that, about a day from now, subjectively speaking, I would knock on the window of my bedroom. I concentrated on moving myself over to my bedroom window. It was slow going — the Levitation Charm was better with up and down motions than lateral ones, but eventually I arrived.

And found me staring at myself through the window. The future me was looking at me in wonderment; then, with some difficulty, he opened the window. I helped push up from the outside and clambered inside.

"Thanks —" I began, but my future self put up his hands, signaling for silence, then motioned for me to follow him to the door. Pointing his wand, he whispered "_Alohomora_" then opened it very slowly. Looking down the hallway toward the stairs, we saw and heard nothing. My older version stepped quietly into the hallway, taking a few steps toward the staircase, listening carefully for any noise, then nodded to me, indicating that I should follow him. Instead, I moved silently across the hall, giving the door a very quiet _shave-and-a-haircut_ knock, hoping Boddy would hear it this time. At least I knew this door wasn't Imperturbed. My future self was watching me with a look of confusion on his face. Did he not realize where I needed to be?

It felt as if I stood there waiting for hours before the door finally opened and Boddy was beckoning me inside with obvious relief. I stepped inside then turned, looking at my future self and pointed to my bedroom door. My future version shrugged, then tiptoed back toward the bedroom while shaking his head. I got the distinct impression that he wasn't making much sense of what was going on.

As "I" opened the bedroom door, a flash of insight struck me and I pointed my wand at the back of "my" (his) head, whispering "_Obliviate_," erasing the last few minutes from his mind. It had occurred to me that I must have erased the memory of this meeting from his mind, to ensure that I would not spend the day anticipating what would happen when "I" was my future self. My future self swayed, then continued into the room and closed the door. I heard the lock click on his door. At best, I would recall this meeting as some sort of weird dream, if at all.

What I still wasn't sure of, though, was _how_ I was going to remember us meeting if I had Oblivated it from my memory, and _why_ I would have needed to. I shrugged, deciding not to worry about it for the moment.

"Boddy is very glad to see Professor Lockhart again," the house-elf whispered, after I had closed and Imperturbed the door to our room.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked softly, looking at Witherhams' still form.

"Boddy has been afraid that the bad lady would hear him and come to investigate. Boddy has been as quiet as a Gringotts mouse, Professor Lockhart, so she wouldn't hear. So has she," he pointed to the unconscious form of Witherhams, still sleeping in the chintz chair.

"Good," I breathed. "Only a few more hours, Boddy, and this will be over with. I secured the gold in a new vault at Gringotts and placed the key in Professor Dumbledore's keeping. I've been waiting for an opportune moment to return to the house." No need, I thought, to tell Boddy I'd spent much of my wait drinking, eating and watching the patrons of Three Broomsticks playing Exploding Snap and darts.

At about a quarter of eight that morning, I heard motion outside the door. I tiptoed to the door where I heard the bathroom door close, then motioned for Boddy to join me there.

"That'll be Witherhams going for her morning bath," I whispered. "Are you sure she takes at least twenty minutes?"

"Yes, Professor Lockhart," Boddy nodded vigorously. "Very sure."

My future self would be in my bedroom, and Witherhams was having her bath. Now would be the time for us to move our Witherhams downstairs to the front room, just in time for her to awaken.

Boddy lifted Witherhams' form with a Hover Charm, and I led the way out the door and down the hallway to the stairs. Rounding the banister, however, Boddy misjudged the distance and Witherhams' head hit it with a nasty knock. I reached for her and fell against the banister, which gave a loud creak.

"Gilderoy?" Witherhams' voice came from the bathroom. "Are you up?" The knob on the bathroom door jiggled. Frantic, I grabbed the collar of the unconscious form floating beside me and pulled her down the stairs, with Boddy hot on our heels.

"_What's going on_?!" we heard her screech as the bathroom door was jerked open. At the bottom of the steps I spun around to head for the front of the house; Witherhams' body slapped against one of my pictures on the wall.

"Look out!" The picture snapped testily, grabbing at the curlers he was wearing. "You'll mess up my hair!" I pulled even harder, making for the front room where Boddy and I had found Witherhams the night before.

"Gilderoy!" I could hear the housekeeper scrambling down the stairs. "I told you not to get up until _I_ did!"

We made it through the just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "The Time Turner!" I hissed, and Boddy fumbled at his neck for what seemed an eternity as Witherhams' footsteps padded down the hallway toward the front room. A loop of chain finally emerged from under Boddy's tablecloth toga and I grabbed it, threw the loop around my and Mrs. Witherhams heads, and Boddy gave the hourglass a single spin.

A flash of spinning shapes and colors, and we found ourselves exactly where we had left, one day earlier.

"Whew," I exhaled gustily, looking around, then was jerked forward as Witherhams' unconscious form flopped onto the sofa as Boddy removed the Hover Charm. "Well, we made it," I said, straightening up and taking the Time Turner from Boddy.

"Yes, Professor Lockhart," Boddy agreed. "Now we have another day to live over again."

"_I _do," I said, looking down at the house-elf. "You, on the other hand, had best get into the basement and hide yourself well." I remembered something I wanted to ask. "Uh, Boddy? Why did you say 'quiet as a Gringotts mouse?' "

Boddy looked at me for a second before replying. "Goblins like mice," he said, shrugging.

"Ew," I said, with a grimace of disgust.

There was a groan from the couch. I quickly nudged Boddy toward the door, then made quietly for the stairs. Boddy went into the kitchen, where the staircase to the cellar was located. I went up the stairs and down the hallway to my bedroom, pausing only for a moment to put the Time Turner on the doorknob across from my room and softly tap the familiar pattern on the door. I then went into my room, quickly disrobed and donned my night gown, then hopped into bed, remembering the uproar we'd heard when she awakened the previous (from my perspective) morning.

Witherhams was in a foul mood that entire day, a day I spent meekly obeying her barked orders and suspicious glares as we went through our usual appointments of ladies' auxiliaries and book signings for _Magical Me_. What she suspected, exactly, I wasn't sure, but she never asked me how I managed to get from the downstairs front room back to my bedroom without her seeing me, if indeed she believed it was me that she'd followed from the upstairs bathroom. Possibly her foul mood was simply due to a headache.

Several times during that day I considered the strange situation I'd placed Boddy in: sitting in that unused bedroom watching an unconscious Death Eater, the future version of which was even now probably trying to figure out what mischief had occurred while she was unconscious, while another version of himself hid in the basement of my house to avoid contact with anyone, even his own earlier self.

Still in bad temper at the end of the day, my housekeeper refused to prepare dinner, insisting that she was tired from the long day and that I should nip over and pick up some takeaway from the Leaky Cauldron. Such a demand, from my normally accommodating, if somewhat irascible employee, smelled — and not just from the fish and chips she wanted. She was even less amused when, after demanding I go only to the Leaky Cauldron for something to eat, I asked her for some gold to pay for the food.

"The bloody nerve of the man," she muttered in a huff, stalking into her private office and emerging a minute later with five Galleons. "Here," she snarled, slapping the gold onto the kitchen table in front of me. "That's more than enough, and be sure to bring back the change, my lad." She stomped from the room, muttering darkly about ungrateful employers who couldn't even pay for their own meals for one night. I decided not to comment on the fact that all the gold she was using for the house _was_ earned by me. Or, at least, had been earned by the real Lockhart.

I stepped out onto Stottenfield Court Road, walking some distance from my door before putting my wand in the air to call the Knight Bus. Stan and Ernie, who both by now considered me their bosom chum, were pleased to see me again and we chatted pleasantly about the weather, Stan's exploits at some of the night spots he frequented, and where the best fish and chips could be found. There was a little place in Bristol they wanted me to check out, where the chips were to die for, according to Stan, but I was insistent on the Leaky Cauldron.

Once there, however, I noticed something that made me offer Stan an extra Galleon to pick up the order inside the pub himself. Stan cheerfully agreed and marched straight in. Meanwhile, I told Ernie I'd be right back, stepped off the bus, and walked over to a carriage I'd seen parked a few store fronts along the road.

Even though the carriage was an old, horse-drawn type, there was no horse hitched to it. I thought perhaps there was a thestral pulling it, but I remembered that I'd seen my grandparents, and several other people, dead; if there'd been a thestral present, I would have seen it. Walking up to the window of the carriage, all I could see inside was darkness. "Good evening," I said, keeping my voice cheerful. "Nice night for a ride."

"Indeed," a clipped voice inside replied; I recognized it from hearing it in my house a few days ago: Lucius Malfoy. "But people should be careful when out at night. One never knows what — or who — one might run into."

"An interesting observation, Lucius," I said, being direct. "But that's hardly a concern for me. After all, I _am_ Gilderoy Lockhart."

There was a soft snort from within the carriage. I could just barely make out a pair of cold, gray eyes staring back at me from the darkness. "If you were as dangerous as you believed, Lockhart, you would be fearsome indeed."

Malfoy leaned forward and his pale, pointed features came into stark view in the actinic light of a nearby street lamp. "As it is, however, you may find your time at Hogwarts shorter than you expect."

That was a rather bald threat, I felt, and the real Lockhart would have quailed inwardly had a man of Lucius Malfoy's position and power threatened him. I, however, knew (or could guess) some things about Malfoy that he would not care for me or certain other people in the Wizarding world to know.

"You-Know-Who's curse?" I said with a condescending smile. I was being deliberately obtuse. "Never fear, my dear fellow; I've faced worse threats and laughed at them."

"Have you?" Malfoy sneered, his voice cold. "I was under the impression you were primarily a Memory Charm expert." A fierce smile spread across Malfoy's face as my own disappeared. He was letting me know he knew of Lockhart's secret.

"What would I need to know about Memory Charms?" I demurred, but it was no use: Malfoy must have learned the whole sordid thing from Witherhams. At the same moment I understood that, there was a motion inside the carriage, as if Malfoy was gesturing. There was a flash of light —

***

I found myself on the Knight Bus, in a cushioned, comfortable chair, sipping carefully from a cup of steaming hot chocolate. Stan Shunpike leaned over me, a smiling but worried look on his young, pimpled face, saying, "Stottenfield Road is our next stop, Professor. Don' worry, we'll 'ave you home in no time at all."

I nodded absently, trying to recollect why I was here. Looking around my chair, I spied a paper bag at my feet, its bottom edges stained with grease. Fish and chips, I surmised, although how I'd guessed that I couldn't say. Obviously, I'd gone to get some, but beyond that, I had no idea why I was on the Knight Bus or where I'd been.

There was a loud BANG and the Bus lurched forward, pitching me out of my chair. To avoid falling on my face I stood up, recovering my balance, and Stan hurried over, taking the cup of chocolate from my hands and pressing the bag of fish and chips into them. "'Ere you go, Professor: 14 Stottenfield Court. 'Ave a pleasant evening." I stood there for several moments, trying to think what I should do next, and Stan gave me a gentle push toward the door of the Bus.

I walked automatically down the steps and off the Knight Bus. My door, just as Stan had said, was only a few yards away. I still didn't quite understand how I'd gotten here; the only thing that was on my mind at the moment was going in and telling dear Mrs. Witherhams that I was dreadfully sorry I'd put her through such a rough patch for the past few days and that I promised to be good from now on. And that I would tell her all of the mischief I'd been up to lately.

I frowned. That wasn't ringing true, somehow. What _had_ I been up to? I started to turn around, to ask Stan or Ernie what had gone on while I was on the Bus, but there was a loud BANG and it vanished. Looking at the air where a purple, triple-decked bus had just been, I sighed, wondering what to do next. The aroma of fish and chips wafted into my nose. I was quite hungry, I realized; I turned back and went into my house, hoping my unanswered questions would resolve themselves shortly.

"Took your bloody sweet time, didn't you?" Mrs. Witherhams asked crossly as I walked into the kitchen. She'd set out placemats, silverware and condiments on the table where we would eat.

"Sorry, dear lady," I said, giving her an automatic peck on the cheek that took both of us by surprise. "I've been simply horrid to you these past few days. I hope you'll let me make it up to you."

"It's about time," she snorted, but gave me a smile and began unloading the bag of its contents, placing a box at each place and placing a handful of napkins from the bag between us. The bag didn't appear empty but she set the rest aside. We both sat down.

Seeing only salt and vinegar on the table, I asked, "Do we have any ketchup?"

Mrs. Witherhams stared at me as if I were mad. "Ketchup? What d'you want _that_ for?"

"I want some on my fish and chips," I said. I'd always eaten them that way, it seemed to me.

"No you don't!" She snapped emphatically. "When have you _ever_ had sauce on your fish?" She pushed the bottle of vinegar toward me. "Stop fooling around and eat!"

Confused, I took the bottle, looking at its label. It was a normal store bottle of malt vinegar, nothing at all special about it. I poured some on one of the pieces of fish in my box and tasted it, all the while feeling like something was wrong.

"So," Mrs. Witherhams looked up from her meal, her expression stern. "What do you have to say about how you've behaved these past few days?"

"I'm sorry —" I began automatically, then stopped, still confused about what I was going to say. There was something I was trying to remember.

"Go on," Mrs. Witherhams prompted me, but I said nothing.

I'd been bad, I recalled someone telling me. I'd run away for days, forcing the cancellation of several appointments and costing us several hundred Galleons in lost fees. I'd become more secretive these past few weeks, forcing Mrs. Witherhams to take extra security measures. And somehow, the bottles of brandy had been switched around the night before last, putting Mrs. Witherhams asleep long before her normal bedtime. Heaven only knew what I would have been into while she'd been asleep, without the extra security!

But how did I know all these things? _I couldn't remember_! Even now, I couldn't remember why I felt sorry for treating Mrs. Witherhams poorly, or what I was doing in this house.

"Don't you have something to tell me?" Mrs. Witherhams pressed. "What have you been up to for the past few days? Tell the truth!"

The truth? I had _no idea_ what the truth was! I shook my head, trying to clear it, but she took it as defiance and stood angrily. I did the same, backing away from the table with my hands raised defensively before me.

"Enough of this!" the woman snarled, reaching inside her robe. My hand did the same of its own accord, and we each drew from our pockets — _wooden sticks_? What the hell? At the same moment I realized, in astonishment, that we were going to point pieces of wood at each other, a word came unbidden to my mind.

"_Expelliarmus_!" I shouted, and a bolt of energy from my _wand_ blasted Mrs. Witherhams' wand from her hand. She stared at me in shock, then dashed to retrieve it. But another word had already come into my head, and this time I knew exactly what it would do as I said, calmly, "_Stupefy_!"

The red bolt knocked Witherhams sprawling, where she lay unmoving. I looked at her, then at the wand in my hand. I had done magic. It had seemed so natural, just now, that I wondered why I had feelings of astonishment and giddiness running through me. It had seemed so easy, and yet it was also foreign, somehow.

"Professor Lockhart!" a high-pitched voice squealed. I swung around immediately, pointing my wand at the small, elfin humanoid who stood in the doorway of the kitchen regarding me with an expression of astonishment. "Did you defeat the bad lady, sir?"

"Do I know you?" I asked warily, not lowering my wand. Then I realized what he'd called me. " 'Professor Lockhart,' " I repeated. "Why'd you call me that?"

"That's who you are, sir!" the small humanoid said tremulously, looking very agitated. "Does sir not remember who he is?"

I shook my head slowly. "I woke up a while ago on the Knight Bus, coming here with a bag of fish and chips," I said, finally lowering my wand. "Before that, I'm not sure where I was."

"Oh, poor Professor Lockhart!" the small humanoid cried, a long-fingered hand covering its mouth. "Could someone have tried to erase your memory again?"

_My memory_? "What do you mean?" I asked, completely confused.

The little humanoid, who told me his name was Boddy and that he was a house-elf at Hogwarts, filled me in on my doings of the past several weeks. It was a bit hard to digest.

According to Boddy, I was a wizard named Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, and a very famous one at that, with loads of books written by me and vaults full of gold at Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank in Diagon Alley, where I'd recently had a book signing. I'd also recently taken a job at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

But it got even more interesting. According to Boddy, when we met I was hiding in the Room of Requirement, a special room in Hogwarts that gives a person in real need the means to fulfill those needs. I had told Boddy, when we met, that someone had stolen my memories from me and I needed to reeducate myself in magic. From what I _could_ remember, it seems I had done a decent job of just that: I had a good working knowledge of most of the spells in the Standard Book of Spells series, up through grade four, and a smattering of spells from higher grades as well. Plus, I recalled a rucksack in the wardrobe in my room with several books I'd taken from the room when I left.

"But still," I said, when Boddy finally finished his story. "That doesn't explain why my housekeeper was attacking me over dinner." The reasons for that, as Boddy continued to explain, seemed to have much to do with my fluctuating memory. I listened, growing more and more incensed as Boddy told me of her treacheries toward me: keeping me underfed during the day and stuffing me at night to make me tired; feeding me tainted brandy to put me to sleep, so she could work uninterrupted late into the night; and the secrets ledgers she kept, diverting my money into who knows what dark projects. I had already examined her left arm, pushing back her long-sleeved top to reveal a faded skull-and-snake tattoo: the Dark Mark! She was a Death Eater!

"This is incredible," I said, hoisting the housekeeper's unconscious form into a chair and securing her with ropes from my wand. "Why would Death Eaters target _me_? I had nothing to do with You-Know-Who."

"For your gold, sir," Boddy said at once. "That is what you believed when you moved all your gold to a new vault, and gave the key to Professor Dumbledore."

"It makes sense," I nodded, breathing fast in anger and perhaps panic. I didn't need Death Eaters, with or _without_ You-Know-Who, trying to exploit or control me. "I need to find out everything I can about what they're trying to get me to do."

"How will we do that, Professor Lockhart?"

"First," I said, indicating Witherhams. "We're going to secure this Death Eater where she can't get out and warn any of them. Then we're going to search every inch of this house for anything we can find on what they were up to."

I finally decided that a small, secure room in the cellar would be enough to hold Witherhams. Transfiguration magic was evidently one of the areas I'd studied ahead on so I transfigured an iron framework (with some difficulty, metal is difficult to transfigure, I discovered), attaching the beams to the floor and ceiling of the cellar, making an enclosure of about 10 feet by 10 feet. With a few buckets of sand borrowed from a nearby playground I poured a pile of it into each side of the frame and transfigured it into a solid sheet of glass about an inch thick. The glass was a little smoky but not enough to significantly impair viewing through it. I then applied an Unbreakable Charm to each side of the cell, and added a Protean Charm on the fourth. The Protean Charm opened a doorway into the cell as I tapped it while thinking a certain word. Pleased with that effort, I also added a Protean Charm that would open a small rectangular slot to pass a tray of food in and out of the cell, making the passwords to open and close the slot "Open Sesame" and "Close Sesame," from the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

Inside the cell we placed a cot, a small table with a basin and a chair, and a toilet with a partition to shield it, for a bit of privacy. We then floated the unconscious Witherhams, chair and all, into the cell through the doorway, closing it up and Vanishing the ropes tying her to the chair. After that, I closed the doorway, opened the slot, pointing my wand through it and said "_Rennervate_," and Mrs. Witherhams woke up.

You would have thought we'd awakened a drunken sailor, she cursed us so long and vehemently. I closed the slot, but she could still be heard, even upstairs, so I added Imperturbable Charms to each of the four glass walls. The noise level went down dramatically; now one had to strain to hear anything, even standing next to the cell. We were now free to search the house at our leisure.

There was still the problem of the anti-Apparation curse that kept even Boddy from Apparating within the house, but without her wand Witherhams could not remove it and escape, even if she was the one who had cast it. The other protection spells didn't keep me from searching in the various rooms, and I had Boddy watch Witherhams and perform other small tasks around the house while I tried to get a clearer picture of what I had fallen into after all my successes against vampires, hags, and other foul creatures that roamed the magical places of Britain and Europe.

At last, in Witherhams' private desk, I came across a treasure trove of information. There was a compartment filled with Galleons —always useful — but the real important find was a journal written by Witherhams and describing her daily activities and how she kept me on a "short leash" since becoming my housekeeper three years ago, when I apparently began writing my autobiography, _Magical Me_. However, as I read through her journal, I found several distressing items of information in it.

Gilderoy Lockhart was, according to Witherhams, a fraud. None of the experiences he talked about in his books were actually _his_, but those of other wizards or witches whom Lockhart coaxed into describing their deeds, then Obliviated their memories, leaving him free to write as if they were.

There was even worse news: Lucius Malfoy and a few other influential pure-bloods had a plan to take over Hogwarts, a plan that relied on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's curse that kept anyone from holding the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher more than a year. Even Mrs. Witherhams herself had felt it — she had taken the job some years ago, before Voldemort's first rise to power, but had been fired by Dumbledore after only a year for teaching "inappropriate spells" to Slytherins. As the curse proved itself year after year, Malfoy and the other residuum of the Death Eaters became bolder and bolder; yet none of them had really believed their Dark Lord would return until Quirrel had arrived from Albania with his special "companion." Severus Snape, the Death Eater the Dark Lord had sent to spy on Dumbledore at Hogwarts, reported his suspicions about Quirrel to Malfoy and their hope was reborn at last, although in a cunning way, it seemed: while I was their latest pawn in the attempt to infiltrate Hogwarts, Malfoy himself was working on another plot, one he would not share details with any of the others, not even Snape.

Oh, there was little love lost between the surviving Death Eaters, I found! They plotted against each other as much as they did Dumbledore and the Ministry. Lucius Malfoy, according to Witherhams' journal, controlled his own classmates, the elder Crabbe and Goyle, just as his son Draco seemed to control their sons. Witherhams had recorded everything she heard or suspected about the infighting among the Death Eaters while staying out of it herself; she hoped such information would come in handy at a future time, when she was in a position to use it to her advantage.

There was also an entry near the end of her journal about the time I had returned from visiting Dumbledore at Hogwarts:

* * *

_Lockhart has been acting strangely since his return from the school. I suspect he is hiding something from me, but an examination of his journal in his "secret room" in the cellar turned up nothing — he has not even written in it since the end of July._

_Pathetic how Lockhart still seems to think of himself as a great adventurer and man of mystery to his insipid fans, when in truth he has no secrets at all from me. I've let him believe his little sanctuary in the cellar remains his secret, as it is amusing to read his delusions of grandeur._

* * *

After reading this, I searched my memory for any hint about the room Witherhams said was there, but could find nothing. I would have to find some way to reveal it. If necessary, I could obtain the information from Witherhams herself — although, I admitted, I no longer wished to resort to the kinds of tactics that Death Eaters (and my former self) were using on others.

An obvious solution presented itself almost immediately — Witherhams' own journal! Surely she would have recorded the location of my secret hideaway, and any passwords needed to gain entry. A careful reading of the journal (I had only skimmed it before, looking for items on interest) revealed its location behind a pantry; the password, predictably, was "Magical Me," a phrase I had apparently been enamored of for some time. I had long planned to call my autobiography by that title, according to Witherhams' journal. I made my way down to the cellar.

Ignoring Witherhams' silent screaming and pounding on the glass walls of her cell, I used the Color Charm to turn them a brilliant and opaque shade of blue. Now she couldn't see what I was about to do. I then went over to the pantry and tapped one of the shelves with my wand, saying, "Magical Me."

A section of the pantry slid forward and split apart, revealing a doorway. I entered, lighting my wand, and stepped into my "sanctum." I could see a spacious area even by my wand's light, and when I noticed lamps upon the wall, a few _Incendio _Charms later the entire room was well-lit. Looking around, I had to admit I was impressed, even if, as I suspected, I had hired some hapless wizard to construct this room for me, then removed his memory for his trouble.

Three of the walls were covered with shelves for books and vials of a silvery liquid-like substance I recognized immediately as thoughts extracted for use in a Pensieve. The Pensieve itself was in one corner of the room, a silver cover over the stone basin. There was a writing desk a short distance away. Examining some of the vials, I saw that they were neatly labeled, some by months, such as "December 1990" or in some cases, even by specific days like "13 October 1988." At the desk, which appeared to be kept very tidy and ordered, I found a single journal book, open to a page dated 28 July 1992, and read the entry there:

* * *

**_I have managed to secure an appointment to interview with Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts. This will be the crowning achievement of my illustrious career, propelling me to even greater heights of fame and glory as the first wizard to withstand You-Know-Who's curse of that position, a little-known fact revealed to my housekeeper by someone close to Dumbledore._**

**_With that position as a springboard, I am virtually assured of obtaining enough material to begin work on "More Magical Me," my second autobiography._**

* * *

I shook my head, ashamed of what I'd written, then turned to the fourth wall, seeing at once why there were no shelves upon it: it was almost completely covered in portraits of myself. Nearby was an easel and a small table, upon which were containers of paint, probably the magical pigments that imbued images of wizards with the powers of motion and speech.

The easel surprised me. I hadn't realized that I was an artist as well as a writer. The canvas on the easel was huge, more than six feet tall, and on it was a nearly finished full-length portrait of (who else?) me in red-and-blue artist's garb, standing in front of a portrait of one of Lockhart's ancestors who also looked surprisingly (okay, not so surprising) similar to me. Looking back at the doorway, I wasn't even sure the frame would fit through it. Turning back to the desk, I sat down and begin to leaf through the pages of the journal lying there.

A few hours later I had all the information I could stomach on the great Gilderoy Lockhart. I'd been a right piece of work, it looked like. Just the information in the first six months of the journal I'd read were enough to make me sick of myself. I lied to people, flattered them, gossiped about them, all in order to keep myself up on a pedestal and in the public eye. It was disgusting.

But all that was over now. I was a changed man. I had seen the light. And if looking at myself in the mirror of my own words wasn't enough to turn me around, I didn't know what would. I decided to see what the library of Pensieve vials would show me. But first, there were some real world concerns to take care of.

I began sending owls to cancel my appointments for the rest of the month due to a sudden death in Mrs. Witherhams' family, who lived up north. It wasn't much of an excuse, I knew — it might be checked, and who knew what would happen if I was caught in that lie, but I hoped that having only a couple of weeks before I was to report to Hogwarts would give me wiggle room to get by. I needed to relearn as much about my past as I could, if I was to successfully portray myself as the poser I had been, while doing everything I could to thwart Malfoy's other plan, whatever it might be.

Boddy, the house-elf from Hogwarts who'd somehow become attached to me, did a fine job of tending to Witherhams as I immersed myself in the Pensieve's memories. Being used to indifference or even abuse from wizards (unfortunately, as even many of the students at Hogwarts who knew about house-elves tended to treat them all poorly as well, according to Boddy), the Hogwarts house-elf didn't mind Witherhams when she raged at him though the slot in her cell as he passed her meals he'd made in my kitchen. And three times per day, I pulled myself away from _my past_ to enjoy an excellent _repast_ prepared by Boddy.

The last weeks of August passed quickly. Unfortunately, my Pensieve memories weren't well arranged; I spent a lot of time going from one fragment of memory to another, from my teens to my mid-thirties, in no coherent fashion. Whatever had possessed me to save my memories in such a fashion, I couldn't fathom. By the time August thirty-first had rolled around, however, I had another problem to deal with: Mrs. Witherhams.

My housekeeper presented an exquisite moral dilemma, one I had avoided dealing with until now: How was I going to keep her locked up when both Boddy and I must spend the next four months hundreds of miles away in Scotland, at Hogwarts? I couldn't leave her locked up to starve to death, and yet I couldn't let her go free, for she would immediately run to Malfoy and the other Death Eaters, and my plans to catch him, a governor of Hogwarts, red-handed in the act of moving against the school, would be undone. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn't see a way past using a Memory Charm on her.

I went down to the cellar late in the afternoon on the thirty-first. Witherhams was sitting at the table sipping at a mug of tea, where she had just finished the dinner Boddy had brought down to her several minutes ago. She watched me approach her cell. I tapped on the wall, opening the doorway, and stepped in. There was no emotion on her face as she said, "You're here to kill me, aren't you, Gilderoy?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Not that the idea hadn't occurred to me, mind you. But I could never be that cold blooded."

She cackled derisively. "Did you never think about all the witches and wizards whose lives you stole when you took their memories and marketed them as your own?"

I could say nothing. I was here to do it again!

She must've saw that in my eyes, for hers went spare suddenly. "So that's it, then. You're going to do the same to me? After all I've done for you, Gilderoy!"

My resolve hardened again. "You can save the sob story. I've read your journal. I know what you've done for me, Witherhams. And _to me_." I began to raise my wand.

The mug that had been in her hand suddenly flew at my head, hitting me a glancing blow. I staggered back, almost through the doorway, and the plate she'd been eating from slammed into my stomach. I fell back through the doorway; as I did, I tried to tap the wall with my wand, to close the doorway, but my wand missed.

Witherhams dived through the open door on top of me, her left hand grabbing at my wand while her right hand jammed the butter knife she held into my side, gouging me. I gasped, gripping my wand tightly, and forced her right arm away. She had leverage, though, and the knife stabbed for my face, narrowly missing and scraping against the concrete floor.

We both had hold of my wand now — I couldn't twist it free from her grasp without risking it snapping in two. She raised the knife again, to bring it down into my face, but as she did I pushed sideways and the edge slid into the forearm of her hand grasping my wand. Witherhams screeched and jerked her right arm back, exposing her right side. As she pulled back, I slid my left leg between us and shoved hard against her chest. She slammed into the wall of the cell, releasing my wand. I pointed it at her and shouted, "_Stupefy_!"

The Stunner took her in the chest and she flopped forward, unconscious, on top of me. Cursing, I shoved her off of me and stood, pressing my hand into the wound in my side. It was shallow, but blood was already running down my leg.

First things first, however. I pointed my wand at Witherhams' head, collected my thoughts, and said clearly, "_Obliviate_!"

The wand flashed white, and Witherhams' pupils contracted to pinpoints. If I had done the spell correctly, and I believed I had, she would remember nothing except that she was my loyal and faithful servant, who'd just returned from the north from one of her cousin's funerals. Of Malfoy's plots and her secret journals and ledgers, of my gold and account ledgers and secret room, she'd remember nothing — only that she'd been a Death Eater until You-Know-Who's disappearance 11 years ago, and she was now just a simple housekeeper. She would also remember the room where she'd been imprisoned for the past two weeks as a storage area where I kept old books and papers.

I floated her unconscious body upstairs and into the front room, settling her onto the sofa, then went up to her room and packed a travel bag with several changes of clothes, to heighten the impression that she'd just returned from a trip. After that I returned to the cellar, turning the walls of the cell an opaque grey to match the color of the floor and walls. Finally, I returned to the front room and sank into a chintz chair, exhausted.

Boddy entered the front room, looking first at me then at the unconscious Witherhams. He couldn't see my blood-soaked robe from where he stood. "Did Professor Lockhart's talk with the bad housekeeper lady go well?"

I laughed distractedly. "Well enough," I giggled. My head was spinning. I stood anyway, turned to Boddy, saying, "Now it's time for us to get packed for the trip to Hogwarts," and fainted.


	7. Chapter 7

"Are you sure you have everything you need, Gilderoy?" Mrs. Witherhams asked me brightly, a cheerful smile on her face. She had been most helpful getting my trunks packed this fine September first morning.

Once again last night, Boddy had come to the rescue. After I passed out, he'd bandaged my wound and moved me upstairs, where I was able to crawl to my wardrobe, where I'd apparently concealed several potions inside a hatbox. Some dittany would have been better, but I drank a bottle of Invigoration Draught; it made me feel better immediately.

The gouge in my side wasn't deep, but I had bled quite a bit. Still, it had given me enough strength to get Mrs. Witherhams upstairs and at her private desk, sleeping peacefully. Boddy disappeared into the basement, and I went upstairs to sleep after taking a few sips of a Sleeping Potion, enough to let me get some rest before waking up on September first. I did have a strange dream, I recall, of seeing myself floating outside the window of my room, and letting myself in the window, but I recalled that as a side effect of the Sleeping Potion, and paid it no mind.

"Quite sure, my dear," I smiled, patting her hand resting gently on my arm. "You've been most accommodating, helping me get so many of my things together. There were two large trunks filled with all my robes and other clothing, my toiletries, most of the Defense Against the Dark Arts books from my library (my upstairs library — the one downstairs I was leaving intact), and a few items I'd found in the wardrobe in my room and decided to bring for good measure — a rucksack with several interesting books and the potions from the hatbox I'd found in my wardrobe. I had no idea where I'd gotten them from, but they would do me little good hidden in my room while I was away in Scotland. Witherhams had also insisted on packing all of my pictures, shrinking them down to a convenient size in order to get them all into my trunks. They would return to normal size when a "_Finite Incantatem_" was cast on them.

"Are you sure you'll be able to make it there with all of these?" Mrs. Witherhams asked again, looking at the trunks, my overnight bag and my teacher's portfolio. "This is an awful lot to manage!"

"Dumbledore has sent a house-elf to help me," I said, pointing to Boddy, who bowed low to Witherhams, his ears touching the front room carpet. It wasn't true, of course; the headmaster had done no such thing, but it was plausible enough, given my importance in the Wizarding world. "I'm sure we'll manage."

"I do wish you'd consider taking the Hogwarts Express, Gilderoy," my housekeeper said cajolingly. "After all, it would be much less expensive." Hogwarts students and staff rode the train for free — the only requirement was that one board from Platform Nine-and-three-quarters by 11:00 a.m. on 1 September with the ticket that arrived via owl from Deputy Headmistress McGonagall in mid-August.

"Apparently there was a mixup," I shrugged. "I never received a ticket." If I had gotten a ticket, it had been intercepted by Witherhams. Of course, I saw no need to mention that to her.

"Oh, dear," she said fretfully, wringing her hands. "It seems a dreadful oversight not to send _you_ a ticket, Gilderoy! You should complain to Dumbledore the moment you arrive."

"Tut, dear, it's only one ticket," I said reassuringly. "But, I'll make sure Dumbledore is aware of it," I added, to mollify her. "Now, we'd better be going." I gave her a peck on the forehead as Boddy floated my trunks out the front door, and walked out behind them. She beamed at me for the peck and stood in the doorway, waving goodbye. There was even a small tear in one of her eyes.

"I'll see you at Christmas, Gilderoy," she said, sniffling. "Take care of yourself." I waved in return, my smile flashing reassuringly, as she shut the door. Sighing, I raised my wand, then took a hasty step back as a loud BANG announced the arrival of the Knight Bus.

"Well, well, looky who's turned up," Stan said plaintively from the stairs of the Bus, looking back toward Ernie. "We was beginnin' to think you'd forgotten about us, Professor Lockhart."

"Of course not, dear fellow!" I smiled expansively once again, clapping him on the shoulder. "But time and tide wait for no man, you know. I had to prepare for the big trip today!"

"So where you 'eaded, then?" Stan grunted as he and Boddy wrestled my trunks onto the Bus.

"Today," I said, "is the culmination of decades of exhaustive research, stout yeomanry, and erudite detective work designed to propel myself into the illustrious halls of arcane lucubration and magical matriculation."

Stan stopped pushing my trunk up the stairs and said, "What?"

I sighed. "Oi'm goin' to 'Ogwarts, Stan."

"Oh. Well, that's what I thought. So 'oo's your friend?" Stan asked, jerking his head toward Boddy.

"He is a house-elf at the school."

"I didn't think they was allowed t' leave," Stan said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

"Obviously, there are exceptions," I said, a bit of annoyance creeping into my voice.

"You'll 'ave to pay for 'is ticket too, you know," Stan said matter-of-factly. "It's eleven Sickles apiece. Fourteen if you want 'ot chocolate."

I handed Stan two Galleons, then found a nearby chair and sat down, wondering where the seat belts were. Thirty minutes and several loud BANGS later, I wiped hot chocolate off myself for the last time as Stan announced our destination. "'Ogwarts School of Witchcraft 'n' Wizardry," he said loudly. Boddy began moving my trunks off the Bus as I gathered up my portfolio and the overnight bag I was carrying.

Interestingly, a few other people were disembarking with us, from other seats scattered around the Knight Bus. None of them appeared to be teachers or Hogwarts staff, though; instead, they turned toward Hogsmeade after exiting the Bus. Watching them trudging toward the village, I leaned toward Stan and asked, softly, "Doesn't the Knight Bus go into Hogsmeade?"

Stan shrugged. "They don't care none for modern transportation round there."

With my trunks off the Bus and stacked near the Hogwarts gates, Stan tipped his hat, saying, "Don't be a stranger, Professor," and with a final BANG the Knight Bus careened away.

The gates to Hogwarts were closed and locked; at a gesture from Boddy, my trunks began to float in mid-air as he prepared to send them over. "Wait a moment, Boddy," I said, stopping him. "Before we go inside, there's something you should know."

"Yes, Professor Lockhart, sir," Boddy gazed up at me with undisguised loyalty.

"It has come to my attention, Boddy, that the reason for me being here is to provide some factions, both within and outside the Ministry, who are still loyal to the Dark Lord —" Boddy's expression turned to horror " — with access to the school."

"Surely not _you_, sir!" Boddy exclaimed, distraught.

"No, not me, of course not _me_!" I said quickly, annoyed that he would even consider such a thing. "However, I found out that I was to be used as an unwitting pawn by — well, by those still loyal to him."

Boddy nodded, his large eyes looking at me very shrewdly for such a seeming innocent. "Those still loyal to him," he repeated. "Such as the Malfoys, sir?"

I gave him a hard look. "Possibly," I said slowly. "Why did you mention them, Boddy?"

Boddy looked around — unnecessarily, I thought, for we seemed quite alone. "There is a rumor, sir, that the Malfoys' house-elf has kept Harry Potter from coming to the school in order to protect him from a plot — a plot begun by the Malfoys themselves, to bring darkness and death to the school."

"Potter's not coming to school this fall?" I asked. Oddly, the idea made me a bit unhappy, though I could not say why. I hoped it wasn't because I was jealous of Harry, or envious of the fame he had seemed to unwillingly fall into.

"It appears not, sir," Boddy said, sounding sad himself. "It is indeed a shame — Boddy hoped to catch a glimpse of him sometime. Because of Harry Potter, who vanquished the Dark Lord, house-elves fare better now than ever before, when pure-blood wizards treated us like vermin."

"I see, I see," I answered impatiently. I had been trying to tell Boddy something important. "In any event, people will be watching me and reporting my activities back to others, and it would not do for them to think I am more capable than they think me, or that I've rumbled to their plan. Therefore, I shall be acting rather less skilled in magic than I actually am."

"Ah," Boddy said, a grin breaking across his face. "Professor Lockhart is skillful at deceiving his opponents."

That wasn't quite the way I'd put it, I thought, irked. But, "Something of the sort, I suppose. What I want you to remember, Boddy, is that if any of the other house-elves ask you, you and I have never met."

Boddy gave me a most peculiar look, but nodded. "Boddy will tell them so, Professor Lockhart."

"Good," I said, distracted by the figure of a man striding toward the gates, a rather wild-looking fellow with long, black hair and a beard, both flying about his head as he walked. "Boddy," I said _sotto voce_, waving at the approaching man while moving my lips very little so it would not appear I was speaking. "Why don't you disappear so we aren't seen together for now?" Boddy nodded and disappeared with a soft _crack_.

"Hello," I said cheerfully as the man strode up to the gates, then goggled as I beheld the size of him. I had never seen the like of such a man before: he stood almost as tall as the Hogwarts front gate itself, and nearly as wide.

"Hullo yerself," the giant replied, in a voice that was both deep and gentle. "And who might you be? Didn't expect anyone else t'be here until the train arrived tonight."

"Gilderoy Lockhart," I said, flashing a brilliant smile. "I'm the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Oho," the giant said, stroking his beard. "So yer the latest one, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," the man said gruffly, waving off my question. "I shouldn't have said that." He pulled out a huge ring of keys and quickly flipped through them until he found the one he wanted and unlocked the padlock holding the chains on the gate together. "Come on in, we'll get yeh up to the castle and settled in before the train arrives.

"I'm Rubeus Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys," he said, swinging the gates open as I fumbled in my pockets for my wand while trying not to drop my portfolio and overnight bag. Seeing what I was doing, he said, "Don't bother wit' yer wand, Professor — I've got these." He hoisted my trunks effortlessly and slung one under each arm. "Jus' call me Hagrid, ev'rybody does," he said over his shoulder as he led the way to the front doors of the school.

In the Entrance Hall, Hagrid dropped my trunks off next to the door ("Don' worry about 'em," he told me as I looked from them to the stairs. "They'll be up to yer quarters by the time you get there.") With a cheery wave he disappeared back out the front door just as an older, hunched-over man with thinning gray hair shuffled into the room.

"Finally here, eh?" he said, eyeing me unhappily, a scowl on his wrinkled, hangdog face. "I think you're the last one, Professor Lockhart — all the other teachers have been here at least a week, now."

I decided now would be as good a time as any to establish my personality. I had decided I would be vain, self-involved, and boastful, unpleasant to be around. It would tend to incline others to avoid me as much as possible, especially if I took every opportunity to make the conversation about me rather than anyone else.

"It was unavoidable, I assure you, my good fellow," I said heartily, flashing a brilliant smile that left one of his eyes twitching. "I've had loads of things to take care of before today — ridding the world of Dark forces is a full-time job, you understand."

"Hmph," the older man said, clearly unimpressed. He handed me several rolls of parchment and a set of three keys from a pocket in his robes. "Directions to your classroom," he sniffed, "and to your office and private quarters. One key for each door. The beginning of term feast will start after the train arrives and the first-years Sorted. It's usually here by dusk. There's also a list of the staff there.

"You'll want to be in the Great Hall by the time the Sorting Ceremony's over, so Professor Dumbledore can introduce you," the old man rasped over his shoulder as he shuffled out of the room. I was starting to think that, with a reception like this, I wouldn't need to drive people away — they seemed content to avoid me already!

It wasn't long before noon, I knew. I decided to find my private quarters and looked in the rolls of parchment to find directions to my room. I made my way up the marble staircase and onto the first floor, following what appeared to be the most direct path to my quarters.

So engrossed was I in reading the directions that I barely noticed the black robes that passed me, then stopped. "Lockhart?"

I turned to see who'd called my name. Another teacher, a thin, sallow-faced man with greasy black hair and black robes was staring at me with a look of irritated confusion on his pale features.

"Yes?" I inquired flatly, hoping my demeanor would inspire him to keep moving.

"Weren't you just — that is, didn't we just speak?"

"I'm quite sure I would remember if we had," I said, giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence. Whoever he was, he didn't seem to be very intelligent. I cocked my head at him, inviting another question.

His brow furrowed. With a dismissive jerk of his head, the man turned and hurried away. I smiled to myself: I was beginning to get to them already!

I found the floor and corridor where the door to my private quarters was located. According to the parchment the old man at the door had given me, my office would be accessible from my quarters, and only a short distance from the classroom where I'd be teaching. Very cozy, very convenient. I stood for a moment looking over the staff list. Conveniently, beside each name there was a small picture of each person. I recognized the wild black hair and beard of _Hagrid, Rubeus_ on the list. The old man who'd given me this parchment was evidently the caretaker, _Filch, Argus_. And the sallow-faced man who'd passed me in the hall a few minutes before, who thought he'd recognized me even though we'd just met, was _Snape, Severus_. I snorted as I saw he was the Potions instructor at the school. I also recognized the headmaster, _Dumbledore, Albus_.

Stepping up to the door to my quarters I jiggled the handle, fumbling with the keys to unlock the door. I thought I heard a muttered voice somewhere nearby, but looking around the corridor I saw no one. The key finally turned in the lock and I went inside. The room had been prepared and I saw, as Hagrid said they'd be, that my trunks were here. I spent the next several hours putting away my things and hanging up many of my pictures, most of them in the office and classroom where I would be meeting students and other teachers on a day-to-day basis.

I was just putting the finishing touches on the paintings hung up in my office, with all of my portraits content with their location in the room, when I heard Professor McGonagall say behind me, "Professor Lockhart, please come to the Great Hall for the Sorting, the first-years will be arriving in just a few minutes."

I turned around to say hello to her, but instead of McGonagall I saw only a silvery-white cat which, to my astonishment, disappeared as I watched.

I was utterly flabbergasted at this, but the portrait I'd just hung said, "Ah! A Patronus! Rather clever of the old girl, to send her Patronus rather than coming round herself." A few of my other portraits agreed, one adding, "A very useful spell, although I haven't used it myself for some time now."

I had no memory of ever using such a spell, but said nothing, merely making my way down to the staff entrance of Great Hall, as Filch's map directed me. Most of the students were seated at four long tables that stretched nearly the length of the Hall, from almost to the back to the staff table placed crosswise at the front.

Nodding to several of the other teachers, who nodded in reply, including Professor Dumbledore, I took my place at the staff table, indicated by softly glowing letters along the table's edge. The spots on either side of mine were still untaken; I read the names _Severus Snape_ and _Minerva McGonagall_ on my right and left, respectively. Several teachers on the far side of the table glanced my way as well, offering nods of their own; a notable exception, I observed, was a short, plump witch with graying hair and wearing a tall green hat, who shot me a single smoldering glance, then turned quickly away. Being too far away to read her name, I resolved to find out who she was and why she seemed so irritated to see me. I took my seat, smiling at the diminutive teacher whom I recognized as Professor Flitwick, who smiled and nodded at me in return.

The Sorting proceeded smoothly, with each student taking his or her place on the stool as Professor McGonagall placed the battered old wizard's hat onto their heads until it shouted out one of the four houses that Hogwarts was divided into: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Busy looking over the plates of delicious-looking (and unusual) fruits and cheeses on the staff table, I missed most of the Sorting itself, looking up only when I heard the name "Weasley, Ginevra" called. The hat placed on her head deliberated only a moment before shouting out, "Gryffindor!" and the Sorting was complete as the young red-head joined her new house-mates at the Gryffindor table. I remembered, somehow, that Harry Potter was supposed to be friends with a Ron Weasley, a red-head as well; it stood to reason that this girl was his younger sister.

Scanning the Gryffindor table, however, I saw only three red-haired boys, two of them identical twins; all of them looked to be older than a second year, which Ron Weasley would have been. Further searching revealed no Harry Potter, either. Curious, I thought, noticing one student, a bushy-haired girl whom the Weasley girl sat next to, was looking up and down the table as well, evidently for Potter and Weasley, just as I was.

Before either the girl or I managed to locate them, however, the headmaster had gotten to his feet and all attention was drawn to him. "Welcome, welcome, all of you, to another year of filling your heads with knowledge at our fair school," he said, smiling pleasantly at them over his half-moon spectacles. I glanced quickly at the bushy-haired girl: she was still looking around furtively, a worried frown on her face.

"As is usual for my first speech of the year," Dumbledore continued, "I shall endeavor to be brief, so that we may partake of the excellent feast prepared for us.

"As _most_ of our upper-class students are aware, the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students." He seemed to be looking at two of the red-haired boys, and there was a twinkle in his eye. As I looked at the two redheads a quick glance and a smile passed between them. "Also Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to remind all students that items from Zonko's joke shop are banned from the school premises.

"As some of you may be aware, Professor Quirrell, our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher last year, will not be rejoining the staff this term." I listened curiously to the murmurs from the House tables at this news; it was hard to make out specific words but one did catch my attention — _dead_. I wasn't sure if I'd known Quirrell, but that seemed to be what I remembered about him, that he had died for some reason.

"This year," Dumbledore went on, extending a long-fingered hand in my direction. "We are fortunate to have enlisted the services of Gilderoy Lockhart as professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts." This time the murmurs were accompanied by the excited whispers of many female students. I stood, smiling brilliantly and waved to the students. My gaze lingered for a moment on the bushy-haired girl; I expected to see her still looking for the Potter and Weasley boys, but she was gazing at me with rapt attention, then blushing fiercely red when she realized I was looking at her. I sat down again.

"And now," Dumbledore finished, clapping his hands, "Let us all put our mouths to a much better use than making speeches." Golden plates laden with all types of food appeared on the staff and student tables. "Everyone tuck in."

Everyone began filling their plates enthusiastically. I, recalling a problem with overeating (although I was not clear on the details of this problem), chose small portions and ate slowly. Neither Snape nor McGonagall appeared at the table to partake of the feast, and after a few minutes Professor Dumbledore excused himself and left the table as well. After finishing my small meal I tried to engage the Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, in conversation but it turned out he had never heard of any of my books until he'd perused this year's booklist. He excused himself shortly afterwards and left as well.

By now my entire side of the staff table was empty. I glanced past Dumbledore's chair to the other side, but there were only three witches left there, one of them the plump, graying one who'd given me a rude glance earlier. I stood; then, noticing all three of them staring at me, bowed expansively and swept from the room. Behind me I heard them begin whispering furiously as I left through the staff exit. In spite of the fact that this avoidance behavior was exactly in alignment with my plans, I couldn't help but feel put off by the rejection.

The next morning was the first day of classes. There was a short meeting in the staff room before the first class; Professor McGonagall wanted to make sure we had our student class lists, and that all the teachers met me, an unexpected and welcome surprise. I was resplendent in a turquoise robe and hat with gold trimming. Professor McGonagall introduced each of the other teachers in turn. The short, plump witch with graying hair was Professor Sprout, and she shook my hand cordially enough as we were introduced, "Yes, I remember."

I was intrigued; evidently, Professor Sprout had met me before, but I had no memory of that ever occurring. After the staff had been dismissed, I followed her down the corridors and out of the school toward the greenhouses. Catching up to her, I asked, "May I join you?"

She turned to look at me, a puzzled frown on her face. "What is it, Gilderoy?"

"I thought we might have a moment to talk," I said pleasantly as I fell into step with her. She let herself into one of the greenhouses and gathered up a bundle of cloth strips, then placed several bottles of potion into a bucket and left, heading north across the eastern grounds of the school. She had as-yet said nothing about my offer to talk, and I did really want to know what had happened between us.

"And why," she finally responded, sounding weary, "d'you think I'd have anything to say to you now, after all this time?"

"Well," I continued, trying to sound conciliatory, "I thought perhaps it would be good to — er, that is, helpful, if we got things settled between us. I — good lord, that's quite a mess," I looked up, startled, realizing where she had been leading us. We were very close to the large willow that stood, solitary, between the castle and the Forbidden Forest. Several of its limbs looked damaged, with several large gashes, and I could scarcely imagine what might have been able to cause such injury so high up in the tree.

A moment later I found out as Professor Sprout's arm shot out involuntarily, stopping me from going any further, and at the same time the tree began to _move_.

I stood, slack-jawed with astonishment, as its limbs swung toward us. The huge limb slashed by, its longest branches missing us by less than a yard, and Sprout said, sounding almost derisively, "Did you forget about the Whomping Willow too, Gilderoy? Perhaps I should have let you walk into those limbs?"

"No," I said fervently. "Thank you, dear lady, I was distracted by our conversation," I explained.

"Hmph," she snorted. "Not likely, unless you were enamored with your own voice."

I said nothing. She stared at me for several moments, then shook her head and turned to the items she'd brought with her. "May as well make yourself useful, then, if you've got to be here. Fetch a stick to stir this with." She had removed the potion bottles from the bucket and was filling it with water from the tip of her wand. I found a stick large enough to stir the potion and began doing so.

"There was a bit of a commotion last night, if you heard," Professor Sprout said, pouring varying amounts from each potion bottle into the bucket as I stirred. She was naturally gregarious, it appeared, even if she didn't want me as an audience. I hoped my natural charm would be able to fix that soon. "Two second-years, Potter and Weasley, flew a ruddy _car_ from the station at King's Cross to the school. And with all the grounds to land in, where do you think they tried to set down? Right on top of the Whomping Willow! Tore it up something fierce."

I nodded, listening as I continue to stir. "Well, boys will be boys," she shrugged, and I chuckled under my breath. She looked up at me quickly. "Some of the teachers think it was _you_ put that idea into Potter's head. Mind you, I'm not sure they're far wrong. It seems very like something you'd do, to get attention."

"I'm sure I never mentioned such a thing to Potter," I protested mildly. "I barely spoke to the boy, over two weeks ago." And I couldn't really remember _anything_ about that encounter, even after reading the accounts in the _Prophet_.

Sprout shook her head. "Going on about you and him making the front page of the paper. Tch!" She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, then bent over the bucket, dipping several strips of cloth into the now greenish liquid that smelled strongly of chlorophyll and resin. "Snape would've had them expelled for sure, if it was in his power to do it. But they're in Gryffindor House, and McGonagall gave them a stern talking-to, as did Professor Dumbledore, and they'll have detention. I hope it suits them, for all the damage they've caused." She looked at the Whomping Willow in real sympathy, then turned to me, a matter-of-fact look on her plump face.

"Make yourself useful, then," she said. "Levitate me up so I can wrap these bruised branches."

I nodded and produced my wand, but Professor Sprout remained solidly on the ground, even after I had tried, several times, to levitate her. Of course, I could have done so easily, but was part of my strategy to appear deficient in magic so that any Death Eaters that might be spying on me would report the same back to Malfoy.

"Ah, Gilderoy, you never were very good at much magic," Sprout said, in deep disgust, as she strode over to where I stood. "How Dumbledore thinks you're going to teach students to defend themselves against the Dark Arts is beyond me. Here, take these," and she handed me the cloth strips.

"What do you want me to do with these?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"To do the wrapping, of course," she snapped impatiently.

"But —"

"If you want to discuss 'you and me' afterwards, you'd better buck up and do this," she said warningly, pointing her wand in my face.

I took a deep breath, then nodded, but immediately thought of something else. "W-what about the Willow? Won't it hit me if I get too close?"

"Tch," she snorted, irritated. "You _have_ forgotten a lot, haven't you?" Turning toward the tree, she gestured with her wand at a small branch lying near the base of the tree, which lifted into the air and pressed itself against a knot of wood on the side of the trunk. The tree immediately froze in place, as if it had been hit with a Freezing Charm.

"Now, up you go," she said, and I felt myself lifted into the air and toward the nearest damaged branch. Under Pomona's direction I wrapped the bruised and chipped areas of each of the limbs with the moist cloths. She threw up a few untreated strips and had me run a sling around a couple of the larger branches for support. Just as I floated back down, landing next to her, the tree sprung to life again, its unbound branches swinging toward us as we stood just out of reach.

"A decent job," she admitted, looking at the limbs. "They should heal nicely now." She gave me a short nod. "Thank you, Gilderoy."

'My pleasure, Pomona," I said, beaming at her.

A wry, rueful expression crossed her face, as if she couldn't decide whether to frown or smile. "Stop that," she said, looking away. "You know how hard it is for me to — well, never mind. I'm not going to forgive you."

"For what?" I asked, in all sincerity.

Sprout turned back toward me, her eyes bright with emotion. Her mouth was set in a thin line. "For breaking my heart," she blurted at last, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if she could no longer keep them inside of her. "For _all_ the times you broke my heart, Gilderoy, with all the girls you teased and tormented with your smiles, your wiles, and your cruelty. Don't you _remember_?"

I shook my head. It was truth — I had no recollection of anything she'd said.

"You and I were sweethearts during my fifth and sixth years here," Sprout spoke with quiet intensity on her face. "Though you were only in your second year when we got together, you seemed quite adult for your age. By my seventh year, though, I discovered that appearing mature was only one of your skills. You developed quite a talent for charming young witches into helping you with your schoolwork.

"Do you at least remember the day we broke up — it was only a week after I began my last year at Hogwarts. You hadn't written all summer; I convinced myself it was because you were trying to study harder." Pomona's eyes were now moist with barely controlled tears. "Even together in school, we barely spoke that first week. Then I saw you walking with that Thicknesse girl after Transfiguration class. Oh, you were very sorry about the whole sordid affair, Gilderoy!" Sprout turned away, shaking with emotion. I was in anguish from her pain. Had I really done this to her?

"Pomona," I said, feeling lost and mortified by the emotions washing over me. "I am sorry, truly sorry, for hurting you —"

She spun to face me once again, with real anger on her face. "It would have been much better for me to hear this back then, Gilderoy, rather than wait almost three decades for you to decide to apologize!" She began walking rapidly back toward the greenhouse. I hurried to catch up with her.

"I know that nothing I say can make up for the hurt you've felt all these years," I said in a rush. I could see a group of students waiting in the distance, and I didn't want them being privy to this conversation.

"Damn straight," Pomona muttered over her shoulder as I caught up to her. "Don't worry, Gilderoy — your conscience can be clear, you've apologized. Now just leave me be."

However, I had glimpsed a face in the crowd of students ahead that I felt I should say something to, a shock of unruly black hair and a pair of round spectacles: Harry Potter. If Pomona was correct, and Harry took the car because of me, I should try to point out to him the pitfalls of notoriety, if only to keep him from trying to imitate me in the future. As we approached the group, I donned my pompous persona once again. "Good morning! I've just been showing Professor Sprout here the proper way to take care of the Whomping Willow."

I hadn't meant it to sound quite so overbearing, but Pomona immediately stiffened, shooting a disgusted look at me before moving past the students to open the greenhouse door. The class began filing inside.

As the Herbology teacher stepped inside, I put a hand on Potter's shoulder to stop him from following her. "Harry, I've been wanting a word." I looked at Pomona. "You don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?"

Sprout looked ready to veto my request, and I really did want to talk to Harry, so I pretended she'd agreed and shut the greenhouse door before she could give voice to any objections. Hand on Harry's shoulder, I drew him a short distance away so we could talk.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," I said, stalling until I could think of something important to say. I wanted to gain the young man's trust again; after the debacle at the bookstore (from what I'd read, that is — there was no memory of the incident in my head) I imagined he considered me shallow and narcissistic. Which, I had to admit after what I'd heard from Pomona and other sources, probably wasn't far from the truth. Now, realizing the error of those ways, I hoped to change things about myself after I cleared up this situation with the Death Eaters.

"When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself."

Harry was looking at me as if I'd grown a second head. My oblique, sympathetic approach didn't seem to be going over well. He looked about ready to say something when I decided to put my cards on the table. "Don't know when I've been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry."

Harry frowned. He probably still wasn't sure where I was going with this.

"Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I? Gave you the _bug_. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again."

"Oh, no, Professor!" Harry protested, realizing I'd just painted him as some kind of publicity hound. "See —"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," I cut him off again, then put a hand on his shoulder. "I _understand_. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can't start _flying cars_ to try and get yourself noticed!" I went on for some time, laying it on thick, sounding like I sympathized with his predicament. After all, we famous people had to keep ourselves in the limelight somehow, didn't we? By the time I finished speaking Harry was positively squirming with embarrassment, especially when my gaze passed over the scar on his forehead as I mentioned all that old business with You-Know-Who.

Satisfied that I'd given him a healthy dose of humility about trying to find his way into the public eye, I gave him a hearty wink then turned and headed back to begin my own classes for the day. I hoped it would be quite some time before Harry Potter tried anything so foolish as flying a car to Hogwarts for the publicity!


	8. Chapter 8

My morning classes went by quickly. The first period was open, giving me a chance to talk with Pomona and Harry, then come back to my office and prepare for the first real experience of my teaching career, a double class with the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, where I met yet another red-haired Weasley — Ron's sister, Ginny.

She walked in with a group of girls, chatting animatedly with them as the rest of the class began arranging itself among the desks of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. I was aware that most of the girls in the class had their eyes fixed upon me, as if mesmerized by my looks and charm. In truth, I could hardly blame them, though it now made me uncomfortable rather than satisfying my ego.

Ginny, however, though she stared at me along with the rest of the girls, did not have that soft, doe-eyed gaze, that ready-to-swoon expression most of the other girls were wearing. It was a refreshing change.

The bell rang for the beginning of class and I introduced myself, writing my name on the blackboard as was the usual style for teachers around the world and through the years. Then, to get them to know one another as well as help me remember who they were, I asked each one to stand and tell a little bit about themselves.

The first student was a pretty young brunette with shoulder-length hair and a cheerful smile. "I'm Sally Bell and I'm in Gryffindor," she said, looking only at me. "My older sister Katie is on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

"Do you hope to play Quidditch too, my dear?" I asked with an indulgent smile.

Sally looked indecisive for several moments before answering, carefully, "Maybe. I'll see how I feel about it next year."

Her desk partner stood next, a thin girl with straight, blonde hair. "I'm Jennifer Hooper, my parents live in London. I'm in Gryffindor, too. I want to be a Healer when I grow up."

Students went on introducing themselves until I came to the desk where Ginny was sitting. Instead of joining the other girls, she was sitting next to a short boy with mousy brown hair, who'd been chattering under his breath with her while the other students introduced himself. Now he stood, looking around the room with an excited expression on his face.

"I'm Colin Creevy," he said breathlessly. "I'm Harry Potter's biggest admirer! And today is the day I'm going to meet him!" There were some snickers from the back of the room where most of the Slytherin students had sat, but Colin either didn't hear them or paid them no mind.

"Is that your only ambition, Colin," I asked. "To meet Harry Potter? Or do you have something planned for yourself when you grow up?"

"Uh —" Colin appeared stumped; I wondered if he really _had_ nothing in mind for himself. But he finally answered, "I enjoy taking pictures. I might get a job doing that."

Ginny stood next. "I'm Ginny Weasley, in Gryffindor House. My older brothers Percy, Fred, George and Ron are here at school with me. Fred and George are on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, too. And Percy's a prefect. And my brother Ron is best friends with Harry Potter." There was murmuring throughout the entire class at this. Colin's eyes widened so much I thought they would fall out of his head.

"What subjects do you like, Ginny?" I asked, to draw her out.

"I like Charms, and Transfiguration," she answered. "And Quidditch." There was some laughter around the room.

"I don't think they're giving out O.W.L.s in Quidditch," I said with a smile. "But if you do as well as your brothers, from what I hear, you'll go far." Ginny blushed and took her seat.

The Slytherins, who'd gravitated mostly to the back of the classroom, were generally more taciturn in their descriptions. A dar-haired, wiry boy stood and said, "Desmond Harper. I'll be on the Quidditch team next year. I'm interested in being a Cursebreaker for Gringotts."

A stout girl with thick eyebrows stood and said confidently, "I'm Antonia Flint, my brother's the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. I'm in Slytherin, too."

"Do you plan on joining him on the team, my dear?" I asked cheerfully.

She gave me a look as hard as her name. "I probably could, if I were interested in such things," she said carelessly, almost sneering. "But I'd rather pursue a more well-rounded education."

When we finally came to the last student, a pretty blonde with a easy smile, she introduced herself as "Emmanuelle Wilkes, Slytherin. I want to design pure-blood clothing."

There were some murmurs from the Gryffindors. " 'Pure-blood clothing?' " I repeated, not understanding. "I'm not sure I ever heard of that."

"I'm not surprised," Emmanuelle said haughtily, and there was a muted "ooooo" throughout the classroom. "I mean," she added quickly, "It's a new style, it hasn't been out very long."

After Emmanuelle had taken her seat again, I brought out the test Mrs. Witherhams had set up for my first day of classes and passed it out to the class. "You have thirty minutes to complete the test, starting — _now_," I told the class, then returned to my desk with a copy to see how hard it was. I hadn't had the chance to look at it yet.

It was not quite what I expected for a Defense Against the Dark Arts quiz:

_1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?  
__2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?  
__3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?_

And so on with fifty-one more questions just like it, each one asking about some aspect of Gilderoy Lockhart's life, his dreams, his aspirations and his achievements. It seemed so silly I would have laughed out loud had I been alone.

Some of them, the girls in particular, had quickly begin answering the questions. I saw several of the boys glance at the girls, then at me, then at each other and roll their eyes.

Well, it was embarrassing, but if it was the type of thing the real Lockhart would do, then I was going to have to go through with it, particularly if I wanted to give whoever might be watching me the impression that I was toeing the line.

And someone here _had_ to be watching me, I was sure of that. Just who that was, however, I still didn't know. It might be one of the staff. In particular, I suspected Snape. It could also be one of the students, like Draco Malfoy, or even one of the Slytherins in this room.

I spent the remainder of the thirty minutes going through the key, memorizing the answers. I certainly didn't want to miss any of _these_ questions, if someone asked! At the end of the quiz I collected the test papers and gave them a cursory scan, pretending to nod over some of the answers. "Very good, very good, some of you," I murmured. "I'll have these back to you our next class. Now, everyone, books away. I'd like to go over with you why studying Defense Against the Dark Arts is so important. Feel free to take notes."

For the next hour I rambled on about the basic of defense and offense, understanding what creatures were dangerous, and why (along with my own commentary, as much as I remembered, from my own books). Anyone that was listening, really listening, to what I was saying would pick up on the importance of knowing the basics and knowing how different creatures might attack.

But by the time the end-of-period bell rang, most of the first-years were either whispering among themselves, sitting bored, or in a few cases actually fast asleep. Only a few, Ginny among them, had brought out parchment and quill and kept notes of what I'd said. At the sound of the bell most of them exploded into activity — snatching up textbooks and throwing them into their rucksacks, then racing off to lunch.

"Be sure," I said loudly over the din of retreating students, "to read chapters one and two of the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade On_e, concentrating on the sections about defensive spells." There was nothing in any of my books dealing with basic spells, unfortunately. I knew it had to be because I'd been hopeless at even the simplest spell.

In my office afterwards, I sat thinking for some time, worrying about how I was going to keep doing this for the next ten months. I didn't know _how_. After only one class, I felt like I was done already. How had I managed to maintain the façade of Gilderoy Lockhart for twenty years?

A knock at the door brought me out of my reverie. "Come in, please," I muttered. The door opened and the weedy figure of Severus Snape walked slowly into the room.

"Productive morning?" he asked. I heard the sarcasm underscoring his question and ignored it.

"Very," I replied, not looking up at him. By now I had remembered about Leglimency, and something told me Severus Snape was good at it. "How was yours, Professor Snape?"

"Adequate," Snape drawled, "considering most students, even the post-O.W.L. ones, don't know a bezoar from a belladonna plant, or wolfsbane from wormwood."

I snorted.

"You have the second-years this afternoon?" he asked, casually. It was more a statement than a question, I felt. I nodded. "Feeling a bit … _ill_-prepared?" Snape wondered.

"A bit," I admitted, still not looking at him, wondering how he knew if he hadn't read my mind.

"Might I make a suggestion?"

"Why not?" I said, trying to sound indifferent.

"You'll want something to grab their attention and challenge them, but nothing so difficult they couldn't handle it."

_That could be useful_, I thought. It would certainly help me, especially since I couldn't come up with anything interesting now if my life depended on it. Which, somehow, I felt it did. "What do you have in mind, Professor Snape?" I asked.

Snape produced his wand and waved it at my desk. A covered cage appeared. I stared at it suspiciously. "What's this, then?"

"Cornish pixies," Snape said with a humorless smile. "Freshly caught, I might add. They are annoying but can be easily captured."

My expression had remained dubious. "Can I have a look at them?" Wordlessly, Snape pulled off the cover, revealing the pixies. They were a motley crew of little blue blighters, jabbering softly among themselves. Their reactions were rather torpid; I thought they were supposed to be much more active than this lot showed.

"I suggest you have your second-years practice their skills with these," Snape said, replacing the cover. "It will make for an interesting first period of the year for them. Unless," he added smoothly, "you have something more unusual in mind…"

I thought of the Gilderoy Lockhart test I was going to have to pass out. This might provide an interesting practical for the period.

"Wonderful idea, Professor!" I said, standing and clapping him on the shoulder. It didn't escape my notice that he glared at me as if I'd slapped him in the face, but I ignored it and enthused, "The second-years will be talking about today for _weeks_!"

"Quite," Snape agreed, his mouth twitching, and he left.

I placed the cage behind my desk in the classroom and walked down to the Great Hall for lunch. Most of the teaching staff was already there — several of the professors were just finishing their meals. When I nodded to several of them, though, the looks I received in return were rather cool — I guessed Professor Sprout was telling tales about me. I suppose I couldn't blame her for that, but I'd hoped the other staff would at least give me a chance!

On teacher who _was_ friendly to me was Professor Flitwick, the diminutive Charms teacher. He and I chatted about my new career for a while over chicken pot pies and pumpkin juice, and I learned from Professor McGonagall, sitting nearby, that he had been a champion duelist in his younger days, although the Charms professor actually blushed when McGonagall brought it up.

Flitwick excused himself a few minutes later to prepare for his afternoon classes, and after I finished lunch I wandered through the Entrance Hall and into the corridor opposite the Great Hall, where I found several empty classrooms and an entrance to the courtyard.

It was nice to walk outside once again, I couldn't even remember the last time I had done so. The day was overcast, and I wandered slowly along the pathways, enjoying the warmth of this early September day. There were a few dozen students in the courtyard, mostly in groups of three and four, sitting and chatting on the benches provided. A few — mostly girls — gave me shy smiles or blushed and looked away when I nodded to them. It was faintly unsettling, though I must have been used to attention from most women, based on what Pomona had said.

There was a sudden commotion on the other side of the courtyard, and I heard someone loudly say, "Everyone line up! Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!" What was _that_ about? I made my way across the courtyard toward the growing crowd of students.

As I neared the group I saw there was a potential fight brewing. Harry Potter, his friend Ron Weasley, and a thin, pale boy with blond hair who resembled Lucius Malfoy were facing off against each other. I could hear the blond boy sneering about a signed photograph being worth more than Weasley's family home.

Weasley had pulled his wand from his robe, but a girl sitting nearby closed a book loudly, and he slipped it out of sight as I stepped into the middle of them, saying, "What's all this, what's all this? Who's giving out signed photos?"

I was simply blustering, of course. It was pretty obvious what was going on. Colin Creevy, the mousy-haired first-year who'd been in my morning class, was standing nearby with a camera in his hand, looking nervous and excited. The Weasley boy and the bushy-haired girl were glancing at each other, avoiding my gaze, and the blond boy was looking smug, though he had gone silent at my approach. I decided the easiest way to defuse the situation was to split up the antagonists.

And the person I knew best in this group was Harry Potter himself. Throwing an arm around him, I said boomingly, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"

I turned to Colin, noting with satisfaction that the thin, blond boy had slipped backward, into the crowd of students watching the spectacle. "Come on then, Mr. Creevy," I said, beaming at him. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll _both_ sign it for you."

Colin smiled nervously and brought up his camera, taking the picture just as the bell rang that signaled the start of afternoon classes. I kept Harry next to me, not letting him get away in case there was any more trouble with the blond boy. "Off you go, move along there," I said to the students around me, who began dispersing toward their classes, and I moved toward a door in the courtyard with Harry still at my side.

"A word to the wise, Harry," I said, walking into the castle and toward a staircase to the first floor. I didn't want him to think I'd noticed the fight that had almost happened, so I added, "I covered up for you back there with young Creevy — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up too much."

Harry was trying to protest that he wasn't setting himself up, that it was Draco Malfoy — and I was right in my guess, that was Lucius Malfoy's son — making trouble, and I let him stammer along as we swept up the staircase and along the corridor toward my classroom. As he paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, I cut in, ignoring his protestations. "Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but I don't think you're quite there yet," I finished with a small chortle as we reached the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and I let him go.

Harry gave me a look I took to be confusion, or perhaps contrition, smoothed his robes out and bolted into the classroom, heading to the rear of class as I walked over to my desk to watch the rest of the students spill into the room. Harry's two friends, the Weasley boy and the bushy-haired girl, joined him at the back of the room, although she eyed a desk near the front before following Weasley to the back. She also glanced furtively at me, averting her eyes hurriedly when she saw me looking at her with a benign smile. In the back, Harry had placed a stack of books — I could see they were my textbooks — in front of himself, probably to have them all ready in case I called for a reading from one of them.

Unlike the first years, who'd filed meekly in the room and sat whispering in small groups before class began, the second years were chattering, almost boisterous, and they all knew one another already. I saw the blond-haired boy, Draco Malfoy, with several other students who'd been standing near him in the courtyard. Like the first years in the morning, this class was a double with the same two Houses, Gryffindor and Slytherin. Deciding to forego the getting-to-know-one-another exercise, I cleared my throat to get their attention and the class fell silent. I picked up a copy of one of my books from the desk of a round-faced boy in the first row and held it up for everyone to see.

"Me," I said, pointing to the image of myself on the cover. My image winked and I winked back. "Gilderoy Lockhart," I said to the class. "Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly_'s Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don't talk about that," I added hastily, with a smile, as several girls near the front sighed dreamily. "I didn't get rid of the Badon Banshee by _smiling_ at her!"

There were a few smiles, but nobody really laughed. I mentally shrugged: this was going to be a tough class. Perhaps I _should_ soften them up a bit before springing the pixies on them after all. The quiz would do the trick nicely, I decided.

"I see you've all brought a complete set of my books," I noted, looking around the room at the piles of books on desks. I replaced the book I'd borrowed back on the round-faced boy's desk. "Well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz." There were groans and I put up a placating hand. "Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in." I pulled more copies of the test from my briefcase and handed them out to the students in the first row to hand back. Going back behind my desk, I sat down, noting the time on a nearby clock hanging on the wall.

"You have thirty minutes — start — _now_!"

Pretending to go over some papers from my briefcase, I watched as the second-years took the test. Harry and the Weasley boy were exchanging glances and shaking their heads; the bushy-haired girl, meanwhile, was writing furiously on the test sheet, and several other girls in the class were looking at me, then at each other and giggling amongst themselves before going back to the test. I noticed the Malfoy lad glaring at me before he began scribbling something on his paper. Some of the other students appeared to be perplexed by the test. I couldn't' blame them — even I couldn't remember some of the answers on the test, and I was supposed to have _lived_ those things!

At the end of the half-hour I collected the papers and went through some of them as I stood in front of the class.

'Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac." I didn't quite remember that myself — I thought my favorite color was a bright blue. I went on for a minute or so, entertaining them with a few other facts I remembered from the test key, while a couple of boys in the front of class fought to keep from laughing and I noticed the bushy haired girl listening to my comments with rapt attention. On the other side of Harry, however, his friend Ron had the most querulous expression on his face.

Then I came across a test that, amazingly, had _every_ question on it answered correctly. Impressed, I read the student's name: "But Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact — full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

The bushy-haired girl raised her hand shyly. Next to her, Harry just stared while the Weasley boy gaped, openmouthed.

"Excellent! Quite excellent!" I said, beaming. I was so impressed with this feat of reading comprehension that I added, "Take ten points for Gryffindor!" I dropped the tests onto my desk. "And so — to business —" I lifted the covered cage of Cornish pixies from behind my desk and placed it in front of the class.

Knowing how lethargic these pixies were when Snape showed them to me before lunch, I launched into a quite serious-sounding warning about confronting the foulest creatures known to wizardkind. I knew I was getting through to them — Harry was peering around the stack of books in front of him, and the two laughing boys in front were now silent, staring at me intently; the round-face boy was nearly cowering in his seat.

"I must ask you not to scream," I finished in a low voice. "It might provoke them." I nearly laughed at the irony but restrained myself, I then whipped the cover off the cage.

"Yes!" I said with a dramatic flourish. "_Freshly caught Cornish pixies_!"

One of the boys in front snorted loudly. "Yes?" I looked at him, eyebrows raised.

The lad was trying not to laugh in my face. Of course, it had been my intention all along to build up this moment only to have them deal easily with the nearly somnolent pixies. "Well, they're not — they're not very — _dangerous_, are they?" he finally said.

"Don't be so sure," I said, waggling a finger at him. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be! Right, then!" I said, reaching for the cage door. "Let's see what you make of them!"

Opening the door, however, I realized that things were much different than they'd been before lunch, when Snape first showed them to me. The pixies had looked tired and sleepy then — now, however, they were squeaking and jabbering, rattling the cage bars and madly zooming around the inside of the cage. The moment I'd touched the clasp on the door they pushed it open and streamed out into room to begin wreaking pandemonium. Within moments they were spraying everyone with ink, shredding books and papers on desks, and tearing pictures from walls. Students were scattering right and left, ducking under desks. The round-faced boy whose book I'd used at the beginning of class was suspended from the iron chandelier in the ceiling. _Bloody hell_, I thought angrily to myself. _This wasn't how Snape said it would be_!

"Come on now — round them up, round them up, they're only pixies!" I shouted desperately. No one paid attention, everyone being too busy dodging flying books or ink squirting across the room and out the windows.

A phrase materialized unbidden in my brain, a magical-sounding one, and I pulled my wand quickly from my robe, hoping it would defuse the situation. "_Peskipiksi Pesternomi_!" I bellowed, pointing my wand upward.

Nothing happened except I felt my wand snatched from my hand, and saw an evilly grinning pixie fling it out the window as well. I dodged under my desk, narrowly avoiding the boy and chandelier as it gave way and he fell to the floor. Some students near the door of the classroom made a dash for it, and a bell rang, prompting an automatic stampede. Wandless, I decided it would be a good idea to get out as well, leaving the matter to someone who still had their wand. I stopped in the doorway, turning to the last three students in the room, who were, ironically, Harry and his two friends, and said breathlessly, "Well, I'll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cages." I then turned and strode from the room, shutting the door behind me.

Striding rapidly along corridors and down staircases, I made my toward the Potions classroom, furious with Snape. Whatever he'd done to those pixies had worn off before I showed them to the second years; they'd acted very different from when Snape first showed them to me. I highly suspected it was deliberate.

At the door of the Potions classroom I saw Snape, walking among the desks of his classroom peering into cauldrons and shaking his head or making sounds of disapproval. He didn't appear to notice me until, after a minute of waiting, I cleared my throat.

The class looked up at the door; Snape turned and saw me. "Professor Lockhart," he said blandly. "What brings you down to the Potions classroom?"

"May I have a word, Professor?" I said thinly. Snape walked slowly over to the door, following me as I backed out into the corridor.

"Ten minutes," Snape turned to remind the students watching him walk out the door. "And not a second more, or you'll receive a zero for today." Turning back to me as he closed the door, his dark eyes bored into mine as, with a small quirk at the corner of his mouth, he said, "How did your demonstration with the pixies go?"

"Very clever," I said, smiling, though my expression was flinty. "Those pixies were rather more energetic just now than you led me to believe they'd be, Snape."

"Were they?" Snape said in an almost-believable tone of innocence and concern. "Perhaps I miscalculated the strength of the soporific they were given. Did you verify they were still under its effects before opening the cage, Professor?"

I hadn't, of course, and that was why I was furious with myself as well as with Snape. It was just as much my fault as his that my classroom had been torn apart.

"You did that on purpose," I said through gritted teeth.

"I doubt the headmaster will see it that way," Snape said quietly, meeting my angry gaze with a calm I despised him for — we both knew he'd gotten to me. "We can take it up with him, however, if you'd like."

I struggled to master my anger. "No need," I finally replied. I wouldn't give Snape the satisfaction of bringing the matter to Dumbledore's attention — the headmaster would have no choice but to side with Snape, since there was a potential for harm to students in my actions. "I can take care of it." Without a further word I turned and walked away, feeling Snape's sneering smile burning into the back of my head, hating how easily he'd bested me. I would know better, from now on, than to trust him.


	9. Chapter 9

I spent the next few days settling into a new routine as I learned how to juggle seven classes three times per week, grade homework, and still manage to get my hair done properly every morning before class. After two days of teaching classes, I was beginning to think I was being seriously underpaid.

Some of this was my own fault, of course. I couldn't use Mrs. Witherhams' lesson plans — they were geared toward promoting Gilderoy Lockhart, not teaching students Defense Against the Dark Arts. By the end of the second day I had scrapped them; I spent most of that evening drawing up new lessons using the _Standard Book of Spells_ series as a teaching source. Fortunately, Miranda Goshawk was very thorough in her research, including almost all of the basic spells for the major magical disciplines, including (fortunately for me) Defense Against the Dark Arts. By the end of the week, most of my classes, even the upper ones where I still felt a bit shaky about the advanced magic, were going along swimmingly.

Except for the second years. I'd returned to my classroom after the confrontation with Snape, prepared to help Harry and his friends recapture the pixies, but when I arrived they were gone and all of the little devils were back in their cage; most of them were still immobile from the effects of Freezing Charms. I spent the rest of that day cleaning up the classroom and preparing for the next day's classes.

I didn't see Harry or any of the other second years again until Friday, my busiest day of the week as I had classes every period. It was really Miss Granger I wanted to see; I had gathered, via careful listening to the conversations of other teachers during mealtimes, that Hermione Granger was the top witch in her year, even among the Ravenclaws, usually the brightest students at Hogwarts.

Heading to the Great Hall in the middle of the lunch period (I was late going down to eat as I'd been trying to get some first-year tests graded before the afternoon), I met Hermione as I was coming down the main staircase into the Entrance Hall. I was distracted, thinking about the essays I had just graded, and she was running up the steps in high energy, when we both nearly collided. It was a fortunate occurrence —I owed her an apology for ducking out on them with the pixies, and wanted the opportunity to tell her so. Now the opportunity had presented itself.

"Ah, Miss Granger! I'm glad we ran into each other," I said, beaming. "Almost!" I added jovially.

"Yes, Professor," she said, sounding a bit breathless. "Sorry! I was going to the Library." She reached up, unconsciously smoothing her hair.

"Actually, I should be the one apologizing," I said with a wry smile. "I wasn't thinking very clearly the other day, leaving you, Harry and Ron to fend for yourselves with those pixies."

"I thought you might've wanted to give us some hands-on experience," Hermione said earnestly. "That's what I told Harry and Ron, though they think you were just — well, that is —" she stopped, flustered.

"Well, I could've handled it better," I said seriously. "But no harm done, I hope!"

"No, it was actually rather fun, getting them back into the cage —"

"Indeed," an oily voice intruded on us from above; Hermione and I both turned to see Snape walking slowly down the staircase toward us. "One can only imagine how much fun you might have had if it had been a cage full of Red Caps, Miss Granger."

Hermione blushed but held her ground. "Perhaps Professor Lockhart can show us how to handle them as well. I remember reading in _Break With a Banshee,_ he had a confrontation with —"

"Very interesting, I'm sure," Snape interrupted in a bored tone. "But we haven't time to listen to you prattle on with an oral book report. You are excused."

Hermione's eyes flashed, and she looked ready to argue further, but I raised a hand slightly in a placating manner and gave a very slight shake of my head. She took the hint and visibly relaxed. "Very well. Thank you, Professor," she said, looking directly at me and ignoring Snape, then retreated up the stairs.

Snape turned to me. He, too, had caught my nonverbal signal. Once she was out of earshot he said, somewhat ominously, "One should be careful of becoming too involved with the students, Professor Lockhart."

"You know, Snape, you've really been quite an arse lately."

The Potions Master raised an eyebrow, but if he was offended, he said only, "The truth may make arses of us all, Lockhart. Be careful what you say, and to whom."

"I'm glad to see you," I said cheerfully, deliberately ignoring what he'd said, in hopes of frustrating him even more. "I've had those ruddy pixies in my office for two days now and don't know what to do with them. I thought you might take them off my hands."

Snape sniffed. "Take it up with Professor Kettleburn," he said indifferently. "He's the Care of Magical Creatures professor, not I."

Professor Kettleburn, an elderly wizard, was literally on his last leg: his other one was made of wood, and he had only one arm as well. I hated to bother him, especially since he never spoke to any of the staff except Dumbledore or Hagrid, but it might be necessary to talk with him if Snape insisted on being this difficult.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Snape said, turning away to sweep down the staircase to the Entrance Hall. As he turned, a small piece of parchment fluttered from the sleeve of his robe onto the steps behind him.

"Snape," I called, to point out he'd dropped something, but he didn't even bother to look back. I bent over to retrieve the scrap so I could return it to him, but as I picked it up I saw writing on it:

_Hagrid —  
The next meeting of the Death Eaters Detection Squad will be held Saturday night at 10 p.m. Do not be late._

_Death Eater Detection Squad_? Hagrid, I recalled, was the groundskeeper at Hogwarts. If Snape had meant to pass this to him —

But Snape had turned right at the bottom of the staircase, not left, going into the corridor opposite the doors of the Great Hall, where there were other, seldom-used classrooms as well as a door leading to the courtyard. Even so, I did not want to risk him asking me if I had found his note, in case he should come back looking for it. Deciding to forego lunch, I turned and went back up the stairs to my office, placing the note in a hidden pouch in my briefcase.

I would have to find a way to talk with Hagrid and find out what this "Death Eaters Detection Squad" was about — how it involved Snape. Especially so since I was even more convinced now than ever that Snape had something to do with Malfoy and his efforts to close the school.

I suddenly realized how I could approach Hagrid. Since he was one of the few people who Professor Kettleburn talked to, I could ask Hagrid about the pixies, to see if he could help me find out from Kettleburn what could be done with them. That would be my plan, I decided.

My afternoon classes went by quickly, now that I had something to look forward to. The second years, still spooked from the pixie incident of a few days before, watched me nervously as I went through my new lesson plan; Harry was practically invisible behind his stack of books, and his friend Ron kept giving me suspicious looks. Of the three, only Hermione seemed to remotely enjoy the class. I finished out the day with a double class of sixth-years, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, then made a beeline for the Great Hall as soon as the dinner bell rang. I was practically starving.

After dinner, now full and tired after the long day of classes, I decided to find Hagrid the first thing thing the next morning, when I was fresh and fully rested. In my quarters, I studied the note Snape had dropped, wondering what I might learn from Hagrid, and how he might have gotten mixed up in this Death Eater business with Snape, and whoever else was on this Death Eater Detection Squad. Soon enough, I hoped, I would know.

I awoke Saturday morning well before dawn, and spent a couple of hours getting ready to see Hagrid. He lived in a cottage on the school grounds, not far from the Forbidden Forest. Walking down the main staircase to the Entrance Hall, I contemplated breakfast, but decided I could risk waiting until lunch to eat if I didn't finish talking to Hagrid in time.

At the foot of the staircase I watched a small procession going by: a group of students in green robes, each one carrying an expensive-looking broom, had come out a door next to the staircase and were making their way out the front doors. Several of them gave me cool looks as they passed and I saw that the leader, the largest of the group, was a young man with troll-like features and a heavy, single eyebrow over both eyes. Also in the group was Draco Malfoy, who gave me a sneering smile and waggled his eyebrows at me as he passed. They were obviously off to the Quidditch pitch for some morning practice.

I was headed in the opposite direction, however. I made my way to the east side of the castle and out to the greenhouse area, the easiest way to exit the castle from that side. From there I headed north, giving a wide berth to the Whomping Willow tree I'd helped Pomona with a few days earlier; I saw that most of the bandages had been removed. A bit further beyond that was the cottage where Hagrid lived.

It was a decent-sized cabin, but I wondered how much room there was inside for a man of Hagrid's size. Curious to see how big the cabin was, I walked around one side to the back, where I saw a garden with several of the largest pumpkins I'd ever seen growing there. As this was only early September, I couldn't imagine how big they would be by the end of October, when Hallowe'en rolled around.

I could hear activity going on inside as I walked up the steps to the large wooden door. Hagrid had been friendly when I arrived at school, as I recalled, but I had no idea how he would react if I questioned him directly about his involvement in the Death Eater Detection Squad. I would have to be careful how I brought it up. Knocking on the door, I called out, "Hello! Is anyone awake in there?"

There was a mad barking and I heard a voice commanding, "Quiet, Fang! Go lie down!" The door opened and Hagrid's black beetle eyes swept over me as I stood, smiling nevously, in front of him. "Oh hello, Professor," he said, amicably enough. "What brings you out to my humble abode this fine mornin'?"

"Hello, Hagrid," I said genially. "I wonder if you have a few moments to discuss a matter with me?"

"O' course, o' course," Hagrid said, stepping back and waving an enormous hand to usher me into the cabin. "C'mon in. Oh, and don't mind Fang," he said, as a _huge_ Great Dane put its paws on my chest and began licking my face. "He gits a bit rambunctious whenever he meets someone new. Go on then, Fang," he said, shooing the dog back to a corner where it settled onto a large pile of straw, then passed me a towel to wipe my face, which I accepted gratefully.

"Somethin' to drink?" Hagrid asked me and I nodded, hoping it would quell the growing rumbles in my stomach. He filled a large kettle with water and set it over the fire, then sat down at the table across from me. "I was a bit surprised t'see yeh this morning," Hagrid said conversationally. "I'd been meanin' to ask what you did wit' those Cornish pixies Snape gave to yeh."

"The very thing I came to talk to you about!" I said, glad that he'd broached the subject for me. "I've had them for three days now and I don't know what I should do with them."

"Really?" Hagrid glanced over to the kettle heating up in the fire. "I though' yeh might just want 'em for like an experiment, or somethin'," he mused. "Don' know what to do with 'em, really?" He seemed surprised. "Aren't yeh supposed to be used to dealin' with creatures like that all the time, like in your books 'n all?"

I was a bit stung that Hagrid had seen through my excuse so quickly. I supposed, since he was the groundskeeper, that he knew quite a bit about woodland creatures as well. "To tell you the truth, Hagrid, I've had some problems with my memory lately. It's an occupational hazard of being famous, I'm afraid," I smiled brilliantly, hoping to distract him.

"Yeah, famous," Hagrid replied coolly. "I seen that picture of you 'n Harry in the Prophet a couple of weeks ago. Kind of a sleazy thin' to do to the lad, doncher think?"

"I thought a little bit of exposure to the public wouldn't hurt," I said defensively.

"Fer him, or fer you?" Hagrid pointed out. The kettle was steaming and he went over and retrieve it, then searching through a large cupboard for some tea.

"I'm already famous, Hagrid," I replied. This was not going the way I'd wanted it to. "You've probably at least read my book about the Badon Banshee and how I vanquished her."

"Nah," Hagrid said absently, still rummaging through the cabinet; but he came up empty. "Got better things t' do than read. Now where's that ruddy tea?"

I had to gain his confidence if I was going to learn anything about his involvement in the Death Eater Detection Squad. "Hagrid," I spoke quickly. "Do you recall hearing anything in the staff meetings about kelpies being in the north well, the one Hogwarts maintains for the Hogsmeade villagers?"

Hagrid turned to stare at me. "Yeh, o' course. I'm the one told Professor McGonagall about it a week ago."

"I can help you get rid of them," I said confidently.

Hagrid's eyebrows went up. "Oh you can, can you? Well, you've got yer hands full enough with them pixies, doncha? I don't suppose I'll be needin' any o' yer help with them kelpies, Professor."

"It'll be no trouble at all," I added, trying to sound helpful.

"Not fer you, since you won't have anything t' do with it." Hagrid was now beginning to sound annoyed. "What's this all about, then? D'you think Professor Dumbledore hired you t' do _my_ job, or yours?"

"Don't be silly, Hagrid," I snapped, then immediately regretted it; Hagrid spun around to face me: a man nearly twice my size, his black eyes now flashing with irritation.

"So what'd you come here for?" Hagrid asked, abandoning any pretense of looking for tea. "Wha'd'yeh want with me, if yer not here to tell me how to do my job, then?"

I had Snape's note in my pocket. It was a gamble, but I decided it was the only way I might get a straight answer from him. I reached into my robe and brought it out, handing it to him. "I came to deliver this message."

Hagrid looked at the note for some time before looking back at me. His frown had disappeared, replaced by confusion. "What's this 'Death Eater Detection Squad,' then?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I don' know nuthin' about it. An' why didn't yeh just ask me about it rather than givin' me a note?"

"The note's from Snape," I said, now annoyed myself. "It's his handwriting, not mine. And why would _he_ be passing you such a note if you didn't know what it was about?"

The answer to that question suddenly crystallized in my brain: Hagrid doesn't know anything about it because _there was no Death Eater Detection Squad_! I groaned inwardly. _Snape's tricked me again_!

Hagrid had been peering curiously at the note; he now passed it back to me with a shrug. "Hanged if I know why Professor Snape'd write me summat like thet. I suppose yeh can ask him yerself."

I took the note with a weary nod. It had become obvious to me now that Snape was simply playing with me, and easily outclassing me to boot! I must've looked totally defeated, because Hagrid was giving me a concerned look. "Are yeh alrigh', Professor?"

"I'm fine," I snapped, still upset at being outmaneuvered by Snape, but Hagrid took it wrong.

"Well, _fine_, then," he said, firing up. "Whyn't yeh take yer fine self back to the castle, if we're done here?"

I couldn't hold back any more. "It's _not_ fine, Hagrid! This note is a sign of things to come at Hogwarts! Death Eaters are stalking this school, and they plan to close it down — or worse!"

"Death Eaters? At _Hogwarts_? You're barking!" Hagrid exclaimed, and on cue Fang barked loudly. "Pipe down, you! Professor, this school ain't been closed down once in all the time it's been aroun'. Closest it ever got was —" Hagrid faltered for a moment, looking stricken, but continued "— was fifty years ago, an' even then it didn' happen!"

"What was that about, then?" I asked, wondering if there was some connection between whatever had happened then, and now.

"Nobody knows," Hagrid said, waving an enormous hand as if to make the subject dissipate into thin air. "Someone got killed, a girl I think, but they — they accused the wrong creature of doin' it," he said hoarsely, now agitated by whatever he'd remembered. I watched in silent curiosity as Hagrid wrung his hands distractedly. He actually seemed to be near tears. "Oh, poor Aragog…" he moaned.

"_Who_?" I asked.

Hagrid started, realizing he'd spoken aloud. "Nevermind," he said gruffly, then put a massive hand on my back and pushed me toward the door. There was no way for me to resist his strength. "Time fer you to go, Professor," he said firmly.

Hagrid pushed me inexorably toward the door, with no intent on stopping until I was through it, and I grabbed the handle, managing to unlatch the door before I was smashed against it. It swung open and Hagrid pushed me outside.

I started to turn around, to argue over the Detection Squad, but the corner of my eye caught the edge of someone's robe leaping behind a bush. I'd seen a flash of red fringed in gold, a Gryffindor robe similar to the ones the Slytherin students had worn, walking out the front of the castle earlier; the top of a bushy brown hairdo was visible just over the bush. Realizing it was very likely Harry Potter and his friends Ron and Hermione, I immediately switched plans; I didn't want them thinking I was here arguing with the groundskeeper.

I looked back at Hagrid, "It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" I said loudly. "If you need help, you know where I am!" Hagrid was now giving me a dangerous look; he did _not_ like my implying he needed my help. "I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't got one," I added — that comment had made Hagrid rear back like an affronted hippogriff. "I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!" I turned and strode away back toward the castle, carefully not looking back toward Hagrid's cabin or the bush Harry and his friends were hiding behind, even when I heard a strange retching noise.

_That was a bust_, I thought, discouraged, as I entered the castle. Snape was victorious again, and I was no closer to figuring out what was happening here than I'd been since I found out Malfoy's plans to close the school. But it seemed almost certain to me now that Snape was hiding something, and that it had to do with Death Eaters and You-Know-Who, although I could not say why I believed this. It must be intuition, or some type of divination power, I realized. Had I ever shown evidence of such abilities? I could not recall, but then my memory was in such tatters recently I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I had and was Obliviated because of it!

Whatever the source of my knowledge, I had to follow it to the final conclusion, no matter where it led me. There was only one person I could think of that could help me reach that destination, short of talking to Professor Dumbledore directly.

Professor Minerva McGonagall.

The deputy headmistress of Hogwarts, who was also its Transfiguration teacher, kept the day-to-day business of the castle flying along like a well-trimmed broomstick. She seemed to know the name of every student in the school, and handled almost all of its administrative duties, if the staff meetings were any indication of her knowledge. I could only hope she might know something about Death Eaters and whether Snape was involved, something she could share with me.

As I'd hoped, she was in her office when I arrived there from Hagrid's cabin and knocked on the door. "Come in," she said briskly, and I entered. Her desk was already covered in paperwork, and she was doing several things at once: grading test papers from a sixth-year Transfiguration class; there was an accountancy ledger opened nearby. On the other side of the desk lay another sheet of parchment with the words _Weekly Detentions_ across the top; the names _Harry Potter_ and _Ronald Weasley_ were written below them, side-by-side. Under Ron's name was written "Trophy room with Filch," but the space below Harry's name was blank. She spared me barely a glance as I approached the desk, her square glasses glinting as she looked up momentarily then returned to her test papers. "What can I do for you, Professor Lockhart?" she said, marking a "P" on the top of a paper by _Flint, Marcus_.

"I want to talk to you about — Death Eaters," I said without preamble, thrusting Snape's note forward for her to read. She took the note and studied it, adjusting her glasses back on her nose.

"Where did you get this?" she asked at last, looking up at me.

"Snape dropped it in a corridor while we were talking yesterday," I replied. "He left so quickly I wasn't able to return it to him. When I picked up the note I saw who it was for, and brought it to Hagrid this morning."

"And what did Hagrid say about it?" McGonagall wanted to know.

"He said he didn't know anything about it."

"What did Professor Snape say about it?"

"I haven't talked to him yet," I admitted. "But I'm sure it was meant to bait me."

McGonagall pressed her lips together tightly before saying, "I should think so — there's no such thing as a 'Death Eater Detection Squad.' "

"But I'm sure there's _some_ kind of truth behind that note!" I said, pointing at it dramatically. I know there's something going on here, something to do with Malfoy —"

"Draco Malfoy?" McGonagall interrupted. "He's just a boy —"

"I mean _Lucius_ Malfoy, Professor," I interrupted in turn. "I believe he has something to do with an effort to have this school closed down."

McGonagall looked at me sharply. "What evidence do you have of this?" she asked.

"Nothing tangible," I said. "But I —"

"Then there's nothing we can do," she cut over me again. "Without evidence there can be no investigation. Lucius Malfoy is on the board of governors of this school — surely, if there were sufficient reason to have it closed, it would be up him and the other governors to decide, based on the best interests and safety of the students."

"He's also a Death Eater," I said insistently.

"Professor Lockhart," McGonagall said, after a shocked silence. "That charge has _never_ been substantiated. There have been rumors, but rumors are _all they are_. I will appreciate if, in the future, you do not make such allegations without sufficient evidence to back them up. Now, good day." She turned back to her test papers.

I sighed, defeated, and started to turn away when I recalled the detentions paper on McGonagall's desk, the one with Harry and Ron's names on them. "Professor, are you giving detention to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley this week?"

She glanced up at me, her eyes flicking momentarily to the paper off to one side of her desk. "You can read, I assume," she said, coldly.

"I'd like to have Harry for his detention," I said. "I can use his help autographing photographs." I also wanted a chance to talk to him about the possibility of Death Eaters infiltrating the school.

McGonagall picked up the detention sheet, writing "Lockhart's office" underneath Harry's name. "Harry will be in your office at eight o'clock tonight. Will that be all, Professor?" she said flatly.

"Yes, thank you, Professor," I said, and got out of there. From the idle chatter I'd heard this week, both at the staff table and in my classes, Harry Potter had been involved in quite a few unusual occurrences last year; he was well beyond being a celebrity in name only. I'd heard mention of his encounter with a mountain troll in a girls' bathroom, where he'd saved the life of Hermione Granger, who'd been locked in with the troll somehow. He had been the youngest student to play on a Quidditch team at the school in a hundred years, and the only first-year to be allowed to play in as long as anybody could remember. There were rumors about him raising dragons in the school, something that had cost Gryffindor hundreds of house points, and rumors about him helping the centaurs kill a unicorn in the Forbidden Forest — which admittedly didn't make any sense since unicorns were creatures of goodness and purity.

Finally, there were the rumors about Harry and Professor Quirrell. Some students said that Quirrell was possessed by You-Know-Who; others claimed that You-Know-Who was gone forever and that Quirrell was acting on his own to steal the Sorcerer's Stone, which was at the school for safekeeping since someone had tried to steal it from Gringotts the summer before. Some said that Quirrell was a Death Eater. It was these rumors that I was most interested in, since they went straight to the heart of whether Death Eaters were in fact infiltrating the school.

Snape's reputation was not in very good shape, either. Ever since Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts, Snape had been coming down harder and harder on Gryffindor students. Many students thought he was simply jealous of Harry's notoriety; others felt he was biased toward his school house, Slytherin, in order to make up the boost Gryffindor had been given when Harry was sorted into it and made the Quidditch team Seeker his first year of school, a remarkable honor in itself. There were rumors Snape tried to fix matches and grant favors to the Slytherin team. There were even some rumors this year that he had talked Lucius Malfoy into donating seven Nimbus Two Thousand and One brooms to the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Having Harry do his detention with me was a lucky break, since it would afford me an opportunity to gain the boy's confidence. So far, he had been subdued in my presence — overawed, I suspected, with fame I had accumulated in my twenty-odd years of writing about my exploits trying to eradicate the forces of Darkness. And now that I had realized just how self-serving my efforts of the past had been, I'm sure Harry would be more than happy to tell me all he knew about the Death Eater conspiracy going on at the school.

That evening I made preparations for Harry's visit in my office. The detention would be as light as I could make it — Harry would have almost nothing to do, so I could talk with him about Snape, to see if I could draw out anything Harry might've heard about Death Eaters. I had a pile of photographs laid out on my desk, with envelopes nearby to put them in, and quills and ink for addressing them. Mrs. Witherhams had sent me a long list of those who'd requested autographed pictures of me (mostly witches, of course), sent to her from the publishers of my books. I felt excited to see Harry again — I hadn't been seen much of him during the week, not since we'd talked the first day of classes, and this morning hadn't been a good opportunity, not in the middle of my row with Hagrid.

Just a few minutes before eight p.m. I head a soft noise outside my office door, as if someone was shuffling along the corridor toward it. I walked over to the door, opening it just as someone knocked, and beamed with delight seeing Harry there, looking up at me with eyes wide in wonderment. I had changed into a brilliant red and gold robe and hat, in honor of Gryffindor.

"Ah, here's the scalawag," I said jovially. "Come in, Harry, come in!"

I led him into the room, watching as he looked around, absorbing the details. My portraits on the walls smiled back at him, a few bowing ostentatiously.

I pointed to the chair where Harry was to sit. "You can address the envelopes!" I said, hoping he would appreciate the ease of this detention. Surely it would much less work than the poor Weasley boy would be having about now, polishing silver in the trophy room with Filch, whom I'd heard cackling about it at dinner. After Harry had taken an envelope and readied a quill, I checked the name at the top of the list.

"This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her," I said, and smiled broadly as I noted that it was her 10th request for a photograph. "Bless her — huge fan of mine —" Harry began dutifully writing out the address on the envelope. He hadn't spoken yet since entering my office, not even to say hello. I was beginning to suspect he wasn't happy to be here. Things weren't starting out well.

Trying to stay optimistic, I began talking about my effort to improve the Defense Against the Dark Arts training at Hogwarts. I was trying to work in some commentary about Snape and Death Eaters, but Harry continued to plug away at the envelopes, occasionally murmuring "Right" or "Yeah" as I pointed out the way he treated students or even Harry in particular. I wasn't sure how closely he was listening to all of this.

I discussed some of the problems I'd had as a celebrity at Hogwarts, trying to compare that with his own notoriety; even though Harry had come to school this year in a flying car, a very ostentatious method of arriving, rumor had it he wasn't trying to make a grand entrance, but had simply missed the train and was trying to get to school. He'd just picked a bad way to go about it; I'd heard McGonagall speak despairingly of his lack of logic — it would have been elementary for him to send an owl to the school explaining his predicament, or even waiting several minutes longer at the station for Ron's parents to return through the barrier from Platform 9¾. All this was well and good, though, I told him, because celebrity is as celebrity does, and fame was a fickle friend.

No matter what I said or did, however, it seemed Harry wasn't going to open up to me tonight. I had tried to be circumspect, to ease into subjects I didn't want to broach directly; Harry, being only twelve years old or so, wasn't likely to be very concerned with the political or educational maneuverings of Lucius Malfoy or Severus Snape. Thinking perhaps I could get him interested in me, I launched into a discussion of my newest book, _Magical Me_. It was, I was proud to say, doing quite well in the bookstores.

Harry started, throwing a blotch of ink onto the envelope he was addressing. "_What_?" he shouted.

I _knew_ he'd come round if I started talking about me again! "I know!" I grinned, happy to see him paying attention at last. "Six solid months at the top of the best seller list! Broke all records!"

But Harry was shaking his head frantically. "No! That voice!"

I hadn't heard any voice but my own, I thought, puzzled. "Sorry," I asked. "What voice?"

"That — that voice that said — didn't you hear it?" Harry stammered, looking quite tense and excited.

Perhaps I'd expected too much of the boy, I thought with genuine concern. He'd been nearly nodding only moments ago; now he was agitated and certain he'd heard voices. "What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy?" I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was almost midnight! "Great Scott — look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it — the time's flown, hasn't it?"

Harry wasn't listening to me. He was staring round at the walls, looking past my portraits as if they weren't there. It was obvious he was done for the evening. The upside was that we'd gone through a good many of the people on my list; I'd checked off about 170 names, not bad for four hours' work!

"Good work, Harry," I said soothingly, guiding him to the door of my office. He was still staring about the walls and floors of my office, perhaps trying to locate the nonexistent voice. "Just remember, I said, a trifle sternly, "you can't expect every detention to be like this one, you know. Next time you might not get off so easily. Now, off you go." Harry stepped out into the corridor, still looking around dazedly, and I closed the door, feeling chagrinned.

Tonight had been a bust, I felt. If Harry knew anything about Snape or Malfoy, he wasn't talking. Perhaps he was scared; I could see that, since Severus Snape was a formidable opponent (as I'd learned), as well as one of Harry's teachers, and he'd known Snape longer than he'd known me, even if I was more famous than the Hogwarts potion master.

All of which mattered not at all now, I reminded myself. Whatever was going on with Snape, or Malfoy, concerning the Death Eaters, I was going to have to figure it out on my own. I just hoped I could.


	10. Chapter 10

I spent the remainder of September and most of October tuning up my Dark Arts coursework until I had a quite satisfactory syllabus for each class worked out, even managing to bring most of my assigned textbooks back into the curriculum, especially for the lower classes: I began assigning specific sections of the books to read and re-enact in class, as practical lessons on how to deal with specific Dark threats. Many of the students relished the opportunity to act out these scenes, which I found gratifying.

I also managed to find a friend in Professor Flitwick, a delightful, good-hearted man who always tried to find the best qualities in others. I discovered early on he was roundly admired among the staff for his expertise in Charms work, as well as being unflaggingly cheerful and patient in his classrooms. I also discovered that he enjoyed butterbeer as much as the next wizard, and so I invited him to share a few with me from time to time, over at Three Broomsticks, or sometimes, late at night, in a quiet corner of the castle.

We chatted away several evenings during September and October watching the rain fall from a comfortable vantage point in the Astronomy Tower, the highest tower in the castle. He even showed me a handy little charm to keep the rain off: _Impervius_, which I hadn't realized could be used in such a manner. Its only drawback was that you couldn't eat or drink while it was in effect, since your body also became impervious to digestion. I was constantly amazed at the amount of education I seemed to have missed in my younger days.

Flitwick, I had learned early on, was a past master at dueling, having won several championships in international dueling competitions in the 50's and 60's, before he began teaching at Hogwarts. He was still very good at it, if I was any judge; one night he showed me some simple techniques for disarming and disabling opponents without using deadly force or Dark magic. The simplest one, of course, was _Expelliarmus_ — it was basic to most wizards' spell repertoire.

_Expelliarmus_ could be blocked with a Shield Charm, Flitwick pointed out. But many wizards lacked the ability to produce a solid shield on demand. For those that could, however, a new technique was needed.

As it turns out, a Shield Charm isn't as effective against Transfiguration spells as it is against other charms. So, a Horn-Tongue Hex or Insect Jinx can be used to distract one's opponent in preparation for the Disarming Charm.

Flitwick had dozens of examples like these. It seemed dizzying that anyone could keep so many attacks and counter-attacks, ripostes and defenses in their head at one time. We were sitting out on the Astronomy Tower one night before the class was due to show up, having a couple of butterbeers, when I told him he should teach these things to Hogwarts students.

"Can't," Flitwick said in his squeaky voice after taking a swig of butterbeer. "It's against Ministry policy to hold dueling classes these days."

"You're joking!" I exclaimed, taken aback by such news. "How are students going to protect themselves from Death Eaters if they don't know how to duel?"

"_Shhh_!" Flitwick quickly silenced me. "Be careful about saying that too loudly, Gilderoy!"

"What, Death Eaters? Well, they're still around, aren't they?"

"Not officially." Flitwick took another drink of his butterbeer, draining the bottle. With a flick of his fingers the bottle Vanished from his hand and I tossed him another full one, impressed with his non-wand based magic. "Officially," he continued, "You-Know-Who is gone and all of his followers are either disbanded or in Azkaban."

"Do you believe that, Filius?" I asked, draining my own bottle. I held it up and Flitwick nodded, with a merry smile on his lips. I tossed it in the air: he smoothly drew his wand, gesturing toward it, And the bottle Vanished in mid-throw. I smiled, shaking my head, impressed again with his skill.

"Oh, there are probably still wizards out there who would follow You-Know-Who again if he reappeared," Flitwick conceded. "But he's been gone for — what, nearly a dozen years now. It seems unlikely he's coming back."

"What about what happened to Professor Quirrell?" I asked, wondering what the Charms professor really knew.

Flitwick was silent for a moment. "The headmaster never revealed the full story of what happened between Professor Quirrell and Harry Potter —"

_Oho_, I thought to myself. So something _had_ happened between them!

"— But it is certainly a fact that Quirrell is dead," Flitwick continued. "I attended his funeral, after all. No charges were ever brought against the Potter boy, it seems reasonable to say that he was cleared of any wrongdoing.

"But as to your first point, Gilderoy: Ministry guidelines on wizarding education now specifies Defense Against the Dark Arts as the primary class for learning to defend oneself against Dark attacks."

"Funny," I said with a jaunty smile, "But I never learned how to duel back in my Defense classes."

"That much is obvious," Flitwick said, chuckling. He took a long swig of his butterbeer.

"Oh, ho-ho, very funny," I said, reaching surreptitiously into my robe. Suddenly I pulled out my wand, pointing it Flitwick. "_Expelliarmus_!"

The bottle of butterbeer flew from Flitwick's hand, and I smiled, triumphant — for a moment. Then I felt my limbs go rigid and immobile. Flitwick lowered his wand — I had not even seen him draw it.

"Something to think about, my lad," he said pointedly. He stood and Vanished the empty butterbeer bottles lying around us. "If you're going to attack someone, you have to make it _count_ for something. Disarming me of a butterbeer bottle is amusing, but you left yourself wide open for my Body-Bind Curse. You'll need quite a few more lessons before you're ready for a real duel, Gilderoy." He tapped me on the forehead with his wand and the Body-Bind Curse evaporated.

"Thanks, Professor," I said ruefully, getting to my feet. "I'll probably never be as good as you, though."

"Probably not," Flitwick agreed cheerfully, as we walked back down the Tower staircase into the castle, parting to go to our respective quarters. "But you'll never know unless you keep trying, my boy."

Except for Flitwick, however, the staff avoided me. Even Snape kept his distance, though he sometimes gazed coldly at me during meals or when we passed in a corridor. That was pretty much how I preferred it — I had to be "on" as the famous Gilderoy Lockhart whenever I was around anyone else, and such performances were draining.

By October my classes had settled into a more-or-less weekly routine: I would assign each class a list from the _Standard Book of Spells_ series to learn, having the students practice on each other or with a few of the brighter ones, like Harry or Hermione in second year, coaching the less-gifted students. I was surprised and pleased to see how easily Harry learned these spells compared to students who'd grown up around magic all their lives — Ron Weasley for example. Hermione Granger also did well, for that matter, which surprised me when I learned that she had two Muggles (dentists) for parents. She was easily the smartest witch of the school, even among students several years ahead of her, although she did not always cotton onto the practicals of a defense spell as quickly as Harry, even when she understood the theory better than Harry did.

I kept up the reading assignments from my textbooks, choosing passages that emphasized anticipating trouble and nipping it in the bud. It was hard to believe that I had written some of these things, given the reputation it seemed I now had. I'd wondered for some time if something might have made me forget bits of my past that would explain why I'd begun stealing memories from other wizards, but everything I could recall pointed toward me always being a selfish, lazy, incompetent wizard. The best I could do, I decided, was to avoid that type of behavior from now on.

It was slow going, given the reputation I had among the staff, and that I had to maintain the illusion that I was mostly hopeless at Defense Against the Dark Arts while Death Eaters roamed the halls of Hogwarts. I hoped to reverse that reputation by the end of the school year, by figuring out who the Death Eater infiltrating the school was and exposing him, as well as surviving You-Know-Who's curse that kept any teacher from lasting more than a single year in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

The reenactments of the reading assignments were the highlight of my classes many weeks, especially so with the second years, as I usually picked Harry to help me with them. I could tell he was enjoying the experience, as humble as he was about his acting ability. I gave him several tough acting assignments: once, he played a Transylvanian peasant I had cured of a Babbling Curse from a vampire who'd been the Ministry Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation at one time, before he'd gone missing and had been replaced by Barty Crouch. I also gave him the tricky role of a yeti which had developed a head cold, a most unusual occurrence since the beasts are well-acclimated to the cold and seldom suffer from such maladies. Harry did an excellent job of growling in the manner I'd described in _Year with the Yeti_. I was coming to depend on him more and more in class for the sense of authenticity he lent to his performances.

My office hours had become rather busy, filled with answering questions from hordes of young witches who kept asking me, again and again, to explain some aspect or another of the adventures in my book. I'd taken to keeping a pile of autographed pictures on my desk and presenting one to any young witch who came round. Usually that, plus a brief explanation of the current assignment, would be enough to send them on their way.

Near the end of October, I had a stroke of luck I though would help me keep abreast of teacher gossip, even though I was _persona non grata_ in staff room outside of regular meetings. I was hanging a portrait over a crack in a wall of my office, but realized I could hear faint sounds coming from it. I listened more closely and heard what I thought was someone speaking. Taking out my wand, I cast an Engorging Charm on the crack, which exposed an old stone chimney behind the wall; from a hole in the mortar I could now hear Professor McGonagall upbraiding Professor Trelawney about her showing up late to several morning classes in the last few weeks. This chimney must be the flue for the fireplace in the staff room, I realized.

I saw at once that I might be able to listen in on conversations going on in the staff room without having to be present, if I could make the sounds coming from the chimney a little clearer. I cast another Engorgement Charm on the hole itself, then Transfigured a small disk from a bronze Knut. I made the disk convex, then placed a _Sonorous_ Charm on it so that any sound hitting the concave side would be magnified on the other. When I fitted this in place in the hole, it worked quite satisfactorily — I was now able to hear both Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, who were now discussing possible reasons why Sibyll (Professor Trelawney's first name, I recalled) would be late for class. Professor McGonagall was telling Dumbledore she believed Trelawney was drinking too much at night. Elated with my new means of gathering information, I hung a portrait of myself over the crack in the wall, instructing it to let me know whenever it heard conversations from the staff room, or to remember them if I wasn't around.

Not long after that it was time for the Hallowe'en feast. It was, as I was to discover, one of the most-anticipated events of the fall term: the Great Hall had been decorated with huge pumpkins, presumably the ones I'd seen growing in Hagrid's garden. The walls of the Great Hall were decorated in large black party decorations shaped like bats. I commented on them to Professor Flitwick as we were having lunch in the Great Hall on Hallowe'en day.

"They _are_ bats, my boy," Flitwick squeaked.

I looked around at the walls, nearly black with them. "There must be thousands of them," I said, awed.

"Oh, indeed," Flitwick said, breaking into a grin. "Come tonight at the feast, they'll be flitting about the hall by the hundreds."

My nose wrinkled at a sudden thought. "My lord, imagine all the droppings!" Flitwick laughed.

"Well, are you a wizard, or not?" he asked, chortling. "A good Vanishing Charm will handle anything that comes your way!" I headed back to my office, faintly nauseous at the thought of all those bats flying around above me as I tried to eat my Hallowe'en dinner.

It was the weekend, so no classes were being held; I contented myself with listening to several conversations in the staff room through the crack in the wall, though there was nothing much exciting going on: two female teachers whose voices I didn't recognize were gossiping about Professor Trelawney, who'd apparently begun drinking early that weekend and was already fast asleep in her quarters, having been taken up by an exasperated McGonagall, with Professor Sprout's help. The afternoon became grayer and grayer as storm clouds gathered outside, and it was raining steadily by the time the clock on the wall of my office struck six p.m. Bored and tired, I nodded off.

It was nearly seven when I woke to the sound of a soft _crack_, and opened my eyes to behold a large pair of green orbs staring at me. "Boddy!" I exclaimed, startled, and jerked upright at my desk where I'd fallen asleep.

"Happy Hallowe'en, Professor Lockhart," Boddy said happily. He appeared excited. "It has been some time since Boddy and sir have spoken. Boddy hopes sir has been well."

"Fine," I said shortly, blinking at the house-elf. "Where've you been all this time, Boddy?"

"Working," Boddy replied. "Always working, Professor Lockhart. It is what we house-elves do, sir. Only minutes ago, we were given the rest of the day off by Professor Dumbledore himself, in honor of this day."

"In honor of Hallowe'en?"

"No, sir," Boddy shook his head, his large ears swiveling around. "In honor of Sir Nicholas's Death Day. This is the 500th anniversary of his death."

"Why on earth would you celebrate the day he died?" I asked, appalled at the idea.

Boddy looked about the room, almost as if he were afraid someone might hear, before he stepped closer to me and said, in a low voice, "Sir Nicholas is the reason we house-elves are at Hogwarts."

I didn't quite understand. "Come again?"

Boddy spoke hesitantly; he continued to look around, as if someone might leap out of the woodwork at any moment and accuse him of a high crime. "Sir Nicholas's family kept many house-elves, sir. He was very kind to us, but when he was condemned to death, his castle was taken over by the men who'd arranged his death — men who had no love for house-elves," Boddy shuddered. "But Sir Nicholas arranged with the Headmaster of Hogwarts that we should come to work here at the castle, answering only to the current Headmaster or Headmistress of the school, and here we have been born and lived and died now for 500 years." Boddy's eyes had become very bright.

"That was most thoughtful of Sir Nick," I said gently. "Especially as he was facing the executioner's axe himself."

"He was a great man," Boddy agreed. "Second only to Harry Potter himself, who rid the Wizarding world of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"And speaking of _him_," I said, seizing the opportunity, "I'm trying to find out which one of the staff members is a Death Eater."

Boddy's eyes went wide with horror. "That cannot be!" he gasped. "Professor Dumbledore would never allow it!"

"Professor Dumbledore might not know," I argued.

"Professor Dumbledore knows everything that goes on inside the castle," Boddy replied at once. "We make sure of —" the house-elf clamped his mouth shut, but too late — he'd given something away.

"You make sure of — what?" I rounded on Boddy, determined to find out what it was, now that I knew he was hiding something. "_Tell me_!"

"We — we are Professor Dumbledore's eyes and ears inside the castle," Boddy whispered. "We tell him things we see, things we do.""The students?" I asked. Boddy nodded. "The staff?" I pressed further, and again Boddy nodded. "Including _me_?" I demanded.

"B-Boddy would n-never," the house-elf faltered. "Boddy would never reveal anything b-bad about Professor Lockhart! Never!"

"Have I _done_ something bad you know about, Boddy? _Tell me_!" I was desperate to know — anything, anything I might have done in the last few months, bad or good. Not knowing for sure what had gone on in my past, beyond what Boddy had already told me, was torture.

"Sir has always treated Boddy well," the house-elf said, looking at me entreatingly.

"That doesn't answer my question," I pressed on relentlessly. "What have you told Dumbledore about me?" Boddy looked stunned. "Boddy, _tell me_!"

"Psssst! Gilderoy!" Another voice suddenly intruded — my own. One of my portraits, the one hanging over the crack in the wall near the staff room's chimney stack was gesturing for me to come closer. "I hear something!"

I strode quickly over to the wall, putting my ear close to the portrait. My image also leaned over, listening to the wall behind his frame in an attempt to hear more clearly. But I could hear nothing but a strange, scraping sound — a sound accompanied by an unusual hissing.

"What is that sound?" I said, looking up at my portrait, who shrugged expansively. "Boddy," I said, looking around, "What do you make of —"

But Boddy was backing away fearfully — his great green eyes appeared about to pop out of his head. "No — NO!" he cried, his arms held before him as if to protect himself from the very sound coming from behind my portrait. "It has returned!"

"What's returned?" I demanded. "What is that sound?"

"The monster!" Boddy cried. "The air! The _air_!"

That made no sense to me. What kind of monster could the air be? "Boddy, what do you mean?"

But Boddy, shaking his head violently, spun away and disappeared with a loud _crack_. My portrait, still listening, shouted, "It's moving away, going downward!"

"Keep listening!" I shouted back, and ran out of my office and down a nearby flight of stairs, then along a corridor to the main staircase leading down to the Entrance Hall. I was halfway down the stairs when I was met by a large crowd of students, coming up — the Hallowe'en feast was over. Stepping aside, I let them flow past me, waiting for Professor Dumbledore and several members of the teaching staff who were coming up the stairs toward me.

"It looks like I missed the festivities," I said with a smile. "How was the feast?"

"Quite tasty," Dumbledore replied contentedly. "I very much enjoyed the pumpkin tarts. It is a shame you missed it, Gilderoy."

"Where were _you_, Professor Lockhart?" Snape, bringing up the rear of Dumbledore's entourage, asked in a suspicious tone of voice.

"I'm afraid I fell asleep at my desk," I replied ruefully. "Getting caught up on my assignments."

"Commendable," Professor McGonagall said dryly. "But all work and no play makes —" She stopped as there came the sound of someone shouting somewhere above us. It was hard to make out what was said, except for the last word: "Mudbloods."

"Come along," Dumbledore said, his expression now serious, and the group of us followed a throng of students up to the first floor, trying to locate the source of the shouting. We hurried along a corridor, in the same direction as the way to my office. By the time we reached a mostly deserted corridor, we could hear yet another voice, that of the caretaker, Argus Filch.

"_You_! _You_!" Filch was screaming at someone — and we saw, as students parted to let us through, that it was Harry Potter he was screaming at. "You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll —"

"_Argus_!" Dumbledore shouted, and the caretaker froze in mid-lunge toward Harry as we took in the bizarre scene: On a nearby wall was Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, hanging from a torch bracket by her tail. On the wall above the cat was written a message in foot-high letters:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Harry was flanked by his friends Ron Wealsey and Hermione Granger. Also nearby stood Draco Malfoy, looking flushed and strangely gleeful for such a tense situation. It could have been his voice we first heard shouting.

Dumbledore stepped forward, between Harry and Filch, and looked carefully at Mrs. Norris. Reaching up, he detached the cat from the bracket, then nodded at Filch.

"Come with me, Argus," he said. He turned to the three students. "You too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger." He glanced toward me, and I instantly divined his intention.

"My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs," I said quickly. "Please feel free —"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said, and led the way up to my office as the crowd of students parted to let us through.

The sun had completely set since I'd left my office — it was much darker than when I'd run out, several minutes ago, to find the source of the scraping, hissing sounds I'd heard in the wall, what Boddy had called the "air monster." However, seeing the writing on the wall in the corridor had made me realize my error — Boddy had said "Heir," not "air."

As we entered there was a flurry of motion across the walls: several of my pictures, their hair already done up in curlers for the night, had scrambled out of sight. I grimaced in embarrassment but no one had seemed to notice, except perhaps Harry — he was giving me a strange look as I drew my wand and lit the candles on my desk so we could all see better. Dumbledore placed the cat carefully on my desk and began to examine her closely, as Professor McGonagall bent nearly as close to watch Dumbledore's gentle probing of the animal. One of the portraits behind me said, "It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrification Torture — I've seen it many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…" the portrait trailed off as I frowned unhappily at him.

Snape, standing back where he could see both the professors examining the cat and the three students, had a most peculiar twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying to avoid smiling. Filch had fallen into a chair near the desk and was sobbing quite unashamedly.

I heard a strange murmuring, and wondered for a moment whether the monster Boddy had alluded to had returned — but it was only Professor Dumbledore muttering incantations over the body of the cat. The words Dumbledore was saying reminded me of an incident I'd just read about in _Magical Me_, and I said, "I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou, a series of attacks, the full story is in my autobiography; I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once. As I recall, there were over a hundred people in that village, so I should say I prevented the murder of almost —"

Dumbledore looked at Filch. "She's not dead, Argus," he said softly. I stopped talking.

"Not dead?" Filch croaked. He peered at his cat through trembling fingers. "But why's she all — all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," Dumbledore said softly.

A sudden memory of just this event came to me, as if I'd always known it. "Ah! I thought so!" I muttered.

"But how," Dumbledore continued, "I cannot say…"

Filch's face contorted with fury, and he turned toward Harry, shrieking, "Ask _him_!"

Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "No second year could have done this. It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced —"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat insistently. He glared at Harry, his expression growing more livid by the moment. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found — in my office — he knows I'm a — I'm a — he knows I'm a Squib!"

Harry, now the center of attention, looked hideously uncomfortable. "I never _touched_ Mrs. Norris! And I don't even know what a Squib _is_!"

"Rubbish!" Filch snarled. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!" I started to ask what a Kwikspell letter was, but Snape had stepped forward from the shadows.

"If I might speak, Headmaster?" he said smoothly. "Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time." There was that quirk at the corner of his mouth, however, indicating he probably did not take what he was saying seriously. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Hallowe'en feast?"

All three of the students began talking at once. "Nick invited us to his Deathday party —" "— down in the dungeons, there were —" "— _hundreds_ of ghosts, they'll tell you we were there —"

"But why not join in the feast afterwards?" Snape pointed out; clearly he was enjoying their predicament. His black eyes were gleaming with malice — I could see it in him. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Harry friends had fallen silent and were looking at him.

"Because — because —" Harry seemed to be reaching for a plausible explanation. It was becoming apparent he wasn't being truthful. I frowned, knowing that Snape was winning again. "Because," Harry finally blurted, "we were tired and wanted to go to bed."

"Without any supper?" Snape asked, almost sneering with triumph. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," Ron said. At that moment his stomach rumbled loudly. I heard McGonagall sigh almost inaudibly.

Snape was now smiling openly. "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."

I shook my head at the hypocrisy in Snape's words. A thoroughly unfair evaluation of Harry, I believed, and Snape had spoken of honesty! McGonagall probably saw it as clearly as I did, since she spoke up sharply as well.

"Really, Severus! I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick." A good point, I noted. "There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."

Dumbledore nodded. "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus."

Snape's expression was coldly furious, but he said nothing.

"My cat's been Petrified! I want to see some _punishment_!" Filch exploded.

Dumbledore held up a calming hand. "We will be able to cure her, Argus. Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

My desire to be helpful got the better of me. "I'll make it," I said, remembering that the potion in question was relatively simple to brew. "I must have done it a hundred times." Which was hyperbole but I was sure it wouldn't be at all difficult. "I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —"

"Excuse me," Snape said, his voice icy. "But I believe _I_ am the Potions master at this school."

I stared at Snape, hating him for the truth, but there was nothing I could say to that. Dumbledore turned to Harry, Ron and Hermione, dismissing them, and they walked quickly out of my office.

When they were gone, Dumbledore spoke once again. "I think, Gilderoy," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "We shall leave the potion-making to Professor Snape. After all, that is what I hired him for…"

Wordlessly the teachers exited my office. My portraits returned to their frames, adjusting hairnets and curlers while giving their own opinions on what had happened to Filch's cat, while I wondered what, if anything, Boddy's monster might have had to do with it, and just who the "Heir" was. I had a sense of foreboding, however: could this have something to do with Malfoy and the Death Eaters?


	11. Chapter 11

By now I was now more convinced than ever that Snape was in some way part of Lucius Malfoy's Death Eater conspiracy to close the school. The Potions master had acted maliciously at every turn, both toward me and Harry Potter, the two biggest foes of Death Eaters at Hogwarts. I thought it quite convenient that a _potion_ would be required to revive Mrs. Norris — and found it incredible that neither Dumbledore nor the rest of this staff thought so as well.

As to the monster — the "Heir," I presumed — that Boddy had been panicked by, I had hoped the house-elf would be of some help filling me in on the particulars, but no matter how many times I called his name, neither he, nor any other house-elf, would answer my summons. Frustrated, I went back to trying to figure out how I might force Snape into the open. It seemed Harry was the key, somehow, but I didn't get the opportunity to speak to him again until the middle of the week, at our next Defense Against the Dark Arts class, where he played the role of a werewolf in an incident from my book _Wandering with Werewolves_. Harry did an excellent job of howling — I wondered, momentarily, if he might have a touch of werewolf in him — but quickly dismissed the idea. Surely, not Harry!

The bell for the end of class rang and everyone scrambled for their books and papers, bustling off to their next classes. My thoughts drifted back toward Snape — how could I get him to reveal what he knew about Death Eaters? Normally, I had no difficulty charming people into seeing things my way, but Snape was obviously highly cunning — it would be difficult to disarm him with flattery. Hmm. _Disarm_? I considered the idea of some type of duel between Snape and me. But it was too dangerous, and impractical — I had no reason to challenge the man, did I?

But wait! Of course! I nearly gasped at the simplicity of my plan. The _one thing_ Death Eaters would not want at the school was students learning how to duel effectively! I would not have been surprised to learn it was why the Ministry discouraged the teaching of proper dueling techniques — that Death Eaters had gotten that bit of education excised from the curriculum to put most wizards at a disadvantage! But if I could persuade Dumbledore to let me start a Dueling Club, I could put that to the test — and come to think of it, that would be a good way to test Dumbledore, too! If the headmaster was in cahoots with the Death Eaters, he would probably forbid it. Well, I would cross that bridge when I came to it —

"Er — Professor Lockhart?" a voice said in my ear, startling me.

I looked around, surprised to see Hermione Granger standing beside my desk, a hopeful expression on her young face. Harry and Ron were right behind her. I looked at them, bemused, still thinking about how I could get a Dueling Club started.

"I wanted to — to get this book out of the library," Hermione stammered, holding out a small slip of parchment toward me. "Just for background reading," she added quickly. "But the thing is, it's in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it — I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in _Gadding with Ghouls_ about slow-acting venoms —"

"Ah, _Gadding with Ghouls_," I said, smiling automatically at her. Hermione, after all, was one of my very best students. "Possibly my very favorite book," I said, agreeing with her, though I hadn't actually gotten around to reading it again yet. "You enjoyed it?"

"Oh, yes," she replied eagerly. "So clever the way you trapped that last one with the tea strainer —"

"Well," I said, cutting her off — I didn't want her getting too far into a story I mightn't remember, and from what I'd just heard, she only wanted my signature to get a book out of the Library; it was no big deal. "I'm sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year —" Hermione smiled and blushed furiously — "a little extra help," I said, and reached into my robes to remove my signing quill, a large peacock feather. Hermione's eyes widened upon seeing it, and I held it up for all of them to see, although Harry had watched me use it the night he had detention. "Yes, nice, isn't it? I usually reserve it for book signings."

I signed a nicely cursive signature on her note and handed it back, then turned to Harry, who was standing unassumingly behind her. "So, Harry, tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season. I believe Gryffindor's against Slytherin, isn't it? I was a Seeker too," I said, recalling another story I'd read in _Magical Me_. Harry didn't react, and I went on. "I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Arts. Still," I added, hoping he might talk to me about Quidditch sometime, "if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my experience to less able players…"

Harry nodded, murmuring something indistinctly, then turned and followed his two friends out of the classroom. I smiled after them, glad to have put a smile on Hermione's face, hoping that Harry would take me up on my offer to chat about Quidditch, or Dark Arts sometime. He did well in both, I knew — the former by his reputation around school, especially among the Gryffindors, the latter by direct experience. He was doing an excellent job in my class; most of his practicals had Outstanding marks, and even his written tests and essays showed he had a good working knowledge of defensive spells.

Then I remembered the Dueling Club and, seized with the idea of causing Snape to make a misstep, raced back to my office to write down some ideas about how to promote the club so it get a good turnout, and Snape would be forced to act against it. After dinner I cajoled Professor Flitwick into a stroll up to the Astronomy Tower and, over a few bottles of butterbeer I happened to bring along, outlined my plan to him (leaving out the part about the Death Eaters, of course).

"I don't know, Gilderoy," he said dubiously, after I'd finished. "It isn't an approved activity, after all, you know."

"Ah, _but_ —" I wagged a finger reprovingly at him. "That's for a dueling _class_, isn't it, Filius?" I pointed out. "This will be a dueling _club_, you see, not a part of the curriculum."

Flitwick sighed, shaking his head uncertainly. "What will the headmaster say?" he wondered aloud.

"Well, what can he say?" I pointed out, spreading my arms wide. I took a swig of butterbeer and continued. "At worst, he can say no, and lose the opportunity for his students to learn a valuable skill that they have precious little opportunity to acquire otherwise.

"On the other hand," I added, warming to the job of presenting the pros and cons of my idea to the school's best authority on dueling. "We won't be a drain on the school's resources, since we all must be here in any case. And if the governors are concerned with safety, then the students will be in an even safer environment than they would in a regular classroom, since more than one teacher will be present — you and Snape. And I will be there, of course," I added, as Flitwick's eyes went wide at the mention of Snape, "in my capacity as mentor and guide to the less-able students."

"It all seems highly irregular," Flitwick complained, sloshing a bit of butterbeer on my robe as he gestured with the bottle in his hand. "_Ahhh_ — sorry, Gilderoy! Terribly careless of me!" Producing his wand, with a quick gesture the liquid was siphoned away. "Snape is a capable enough teacher," he went on, putting his wand back in his robe. "But he can be so — so —"

"Rude?" I offered. "Boorish? Petulant?"

Flitwick chuckled. "He can be a bit rigid at times; I find him a bit stuffy as well." He paused, considering, rubbing his chin pensively. "However, Gilderoy, there is a solution…"

"What's that?" I asked quickly.

"You," the Charms teacher replied, just as quickly. "You can run the dueling club along with Snape, instead of me."

"I?" I was incredulous. "I don't have a _tenth_ of the knowledge you do, Professor!"

"Oh, piffle," Flitwick said, waving away my objection. "It's not so much a matter of knowledge as it is of teaching, Gilderoy! Besides," he added shrewdly. "You running the Dueling Club alongside Professor Snape will accomplish a _dual_ purpose." He chuckled

"And what is that?" I wanted to know, ignoring his pun.

"You've been wanting me to teach you some dueling techniques," Flitwick pointed out. "In a few weeks I can give you a good basic grounding in wizard dueling; by the time Professor Dumbledore gives the okay for the club and you arrange the first meeting, you'll be ready to teach the students. Thus, both you and they will profit, and you'll be better equipped for a confrontation with Snape."

"Confrontation?" I repeated, not liking the implication of his use of that word.

"Come now, Gilderoy," Flitwick gave me a knowing look. "We all know the running feud you two have going. That incident with the Cornish pixies at the beginning of the year. The glares you give each other when you think no one's looking."

Abashed, I said nothing. Flitwick did not go on, but got to his feet slowly and stood, swaying. A few butterbeers were usually enough to leave him slightly tipsy, although I'd never seen him truly blotto.

"You think on it, Gilderoy," he said, touching the side of his nose. "Think on it and get back to me — I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would like to see more cooperation between you and Snape."

"_Would_ he?" I remarked ironically. "Well, if that's the way it must be, Professor Flitwick, I agree."

"Splendid!" the diminutive wizard beamed at me. "I'll even propose the arrangement to Dumbledore, then. On your behalf, of course, dear fellow," he hastened to add. Walking slightly wobbly to the door of the Tower, he was halfway through before he stopped and turned back to me. "Let's arrange for your dueling lessons to begin, Gilderoy," he said, and hiccupped. "Oh, excuse me. We can begin any time you like."

"Tomorrow or the next day will be fine, Professor Flitwick," I said with a cheerfulness I didn't feel. I had the impression I'd been outmaneuvered again, no matter that I was getting my way.

My first formal dueling lesson with Flitwick was the first Friday of November after dinner. We met in my offices, the most private place we could think of; it was unlikely that any students would come around Friday evening after hours, especially as tomorrow was the first Quidditch match of the school year.

Before we began, Flitwick informed me that Dumbledore was delighted with the idea of a Dueling Club — to Flitwick's great and utter surprise. As it turned out, it was mostly the Ministry that didn't want dueling taught as a separate class; apparently they were of the opinion that it encouraged disagreements in the Wizarding community, something Flitwick considered rubbish. Better to have a formal duel, he'd told me, following rules and procedures to enforce safety, than to simply go off somewhere and begin blasting spells at one another, like Muggles with their crude firearms.

Flitwick began with the formalities of wizard dueling — the five steps, to measure out the distance between opponents; the flourished bow, to acknowledge one's opponent, wand held at the side in a non-threatening manner; and the first exchange of attack, always simultaneous, for maximum fairness.

I found out quickly enough that Flitwick had forgotten more about dueling than I was ever likely to know. He was able to disarm me effortlessly, time after time, while I struggled to even touch him with any of my spells. My back was beginning to ache with all the times I bent over to retrieve my wand while Filius waited patiently to explain to me what I'd done wrong and how to prevent it in the future. Then he would disarm me with yet another technique.

After about an hour he called a halt, saying, "I think you've had enough of that for now, Gilderoy. I wanted to give you an overview of all the techniques — now let's concentrate on the basics.

"As you know, the Disarming Charm is the basic Wizarding defense spell." I nodded with a rueful smile. "In formal duels," Flitwick continued, "most wizards prepare both an offensive and a defensive charm, and must be ready to switch from one to the other instantly, depending on the situation.

"In the _real_ world, of course, this isn't always possible. That's why you need to be able to use the Disarming Charm instantly, in any situation. It's why we encourage its use so strongly in formal duels. Practice makes perfect, as they say."

Flitwick stepped away from me, to the center of my office. The furniture had been cleared off: shrunken and pushed off to one side, it opened up room for our dueling practice. From the walls, my portraits watched attentively, some offering the occasional bit of advice or cheering me on as Flitwick disarmed me time and again.

"There are really only three basic defenses against the Disarming Charm: you can block it — the Shield Charm is an excellent example of a blocking spell, although I've noticed a decline in recent years of students who attain proficiency at it. The disadvantage of the Shield Charm is that it also prevents you from casting a counterspell at your opponent unless you coordinate its removal and your riposte well.

"You can also avoid it, either by removing yourself, or your wand, as the target of the Disarming Charm. I say yourself because sometimes, an attacker will aim more at you than at your wand, and the effects of being hit directly with a Disarming Charm can be quite spectacular, if I do say so!" Flitwick laughed squeakily. You can either Apparate out of its path or, if you are agile enough, dodge out of its way.

"The final defense," Flitwick concluded, "is not to block or even avoid the spell, but to cause it to dissipate."

"That sounds more difficult," I said candidly, wondering why Flitwick would even mention it to me — it should have been obvious to him by now that I was a relative novice, even at basic dueling.

"It is," Flitwick admitted, twirling his wand absently in his hand. "It is one of the more advanced techniques for handling the Disarming Charm. Even so, it is good to be aware of the possibility.

"Take _Evanesco_ for example: the Vanishing Spell. In fact," the Charms professor said, "why don't you have a go at me right now, and I'll show you what I mean."

I nodded and lifted my wand hand suddenly, shouting "_Expelliarmus_!" and sent a scarlet spell zooming toward him. But, as quick as I thought I'd been, his wand flicked and the red bolt disappeared into thin air.

"Nice speed, Gilderoy!" Flitwick said, applauding as he approached me. "That was your best move tonight — a powerful bolt, and well-aimed."

"For all the good that did, Filius," I said, a bit disappointed.

"You just need practice," Flitwick said, reaching up to pat me on the middle of my back, about the highest he was able to reach.

"Well," he went on briskly, putting away his wand. "I must get some assignments graded if I'm going to be able to enjoy the Quidditch match tomorrow. Who will you be cheering for, Gilderoy?"

"Gryffindor," I said at once, although I hadn't really thought about it before now. "Yes, Gryffindor, I think. That Harry Potter lad has a strong arm and a keen eye, I've heard."

"I'm sure he'll do well tomorrow," Flitwick agreed. "He gave them quite a run last year, and he was only a first year then, the youngest player at the school in a hundred years. Well, let's put your office right again, Gilderoy, and I'll say goodnight."

We (alright — mostly _he_) enlarged my furniture back to its original size, and floated everything back into place. Flitwick then bid me goodnight and left me sitting tiredly at my desk, considering how far I still had to go before I was even _competent_ at his level of spellwork. I shook my head, discouraged, then laid it down on my crossed arms, full of self-pity.

I must've dozed off, for the room was dark when I next looked up, even though it felt as though only a few seconds had passed. Behind me, one of my portraits was trying to get my attention.

It was the portrait over the crack in the wall, the one I had changed so I could overhear conversations in the staff room. "Whazzup?" I said sleepily, looking around at my portrait.

My image had his hair up in curlers and was bent over listening to the back piece of his frame. "Hurry up!" he said excitedly. "This is interesting!"

I came closer, pushing the frame aside ("Watch it!" my portrait said sharply) to hear better. The voices were fuzzy and indistinct, as if they were talking softly; I strained to hear what they were saying.

"You don't actually believe he could do anything more than hex someone accidentally, do you, Dumbledore?" The voice was barely audible, but I knew at once who it was: Snape.

"Even so, Severus, you must admire his courage: not many with his singular lack of ability would agree to co-host a dueling club with you," I heard Dumbledore reply, his tone one of mild amusement.

"What did he say?" one of my nearby portraits muttered. I shushed him and he snorted indignantly. "Well, _I'd_ like to hear what he's saying, too!" he replied in a sulky tone.

"_Courage_?" Snape was saying, incredulous. "The man is an absolute menace in the classroom. I almost feel sorry for Potter — with Lockhart teaching him Defense Against the Dark Arts, he's bound to end up cursed — or worse."

"That was rude," the portrait I'd moved aside complained. "And _why_ isn't Professor Dumbledore defending us? He _chose_ us for the position, after all!"

_Perhaps not for the right reason_, I thought to myself. I leaned closer to the crack in the wall, anxious not to miss a word of the conversation.

"I'm going to allow the Dueling Club," Dumbledore said, and I made a gesture of triumph. "_Not_ because he'll teach them anything," he went on, apparently forestalling a protest from Snape. "But because it will get them thinking about defending themselves when they see he _can't_ teach them anything."

"And what about me?" Snape's voice now sounded a bit ruffled, as if Dumbledore seemed to expect no better from him. "Do you suppose I can bring nothing worthwhile to such a club?"

"You are indeed quite capable of doing so, Severus," Dumbledore replied gently. "It is, after all, supposed to be about the students. But I don't think the Dueling Club will last more than a few meetings, even if it is successful."

"And why not?"

"I expect there will be more important things afoot shortly."

There was a protracted silence. I leaned even closer, straining to hear anything either of them might be whispering, but there was nothing else. After several minutes I gave up and moved the portrait back over the crack, brooding.

I was not happy with Dumbledore's attitude. The headmaster seemed to think I was of little value as a teacher; this, in spite of the fact that I had been keeping pace with seven years of students, many of whom were doing well in their Dark Arts defence studies.

The implications of this on Dumbledore's reasons for hiring me were not good: could Dumbledore _himself_ be in on the Death Eater conspiracy to close Hogwarts? That seemed almost too terrible to contemplate!

And I _couldn't_ accept it. Dumbledore, I felt, was a good man at heart. Unlike Snape, I had never had concerns about his intentions or methods. This could mean that he was simply very effective at deceiving others, but I didn't believe it.

Locking my office, I went into my private quarters and got ready for bed, thinking about what I could to improve myself so Snape would have to keep his mouth shut about my ability as a wizard. If nothing else, I had to prove that the chance Dumbledore gave me wasn't' in vain.

The next morning I walked jauntily into the Great Hall wearing my best jade-green robe and hat in honor of Slytherin's impending defeat, tipping my brim to the group of witches who had gathered on the opposite end of the staff table and were chattering over their breakfasts. "Good morning, ladies," I said, a brilliant smile on my face, and went to my usual seat at the north end of the table. There was a moment of silence as a few of them stared at me curiously; then they went back to their usual gossip.

I nodded to Professor Flitwick, who was also in his usual chair. "Good morning, Gilderoy," Flitwick squeaked, wiping his mouth as he finished off the last of his eggs. "Ready for the game today?"

"Looking forward to it," I said briskly. "Should be quite the show."

"Care to make a small wager?" I looked up into the black eyes of Professor Snape, who'd come up silently behind us.

"I'm not sure we're supposed to bet on the Quidditch games, Professor," Flitwick said with mild disapproval.

"No need to make it gold," Snape replied smoothly. "We could make it something more interesting — say, you'll withdraw your request for a Dueling Club if Slytherin wins, Lockhart?"

I was taking a couple of fried eggs off a platter, but stopped upon hearing this. "You know about that already?"

"Your request _was_ to have me as a co-sponsor of the club, was it not? Dumbledore asked me what I thought of the idea."

"I suppose you don't care for it, then," I said flatly.

"On the contrary," Snape said, looking down his long nose at me. "I think it's a wonderful idea. It's _you_ I don't approve of, Lockhart."

"Now, boys," Flitwick said, putting up his hands in an appeasing manner. "Let's not argue over this now." The other end of the High Table had gone silent — every one of the ladies was giving us their complete and undivided attention.

"Really?" I said, ignoring Flitwick's protest. "I thought it was supposed to be about the students, Snape."

Snape was silent. Beyond him, I could see the women nodding in agreement. Even Flitwick beamed at me for that remark.

"There is no question of that," Snape grudgingly replied at last.

"So, to your bet," I continued. "If I win, I can choose the co-sponsor I wish, and the Dueling Club will go on; if you win, you can decide whether to hold club meetings, and who your co-sponsor is. Agreed?" I smiled, knowing I had him. Now, after he'd acknowledged that what we did was for the students' sakes, and that he thought it was a wonderful idea, if he didn't go through with it he would be branded a hypocrite.

Snape didn't reply for several seconds, obviously considering the same thing. "Agreed," he said at last, his face looking as if he'd swallowed a urine-flavored Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor bean. We shook hands, then Snape swept from the room. The witches went back to their little klatch, and Flitwick gave me a wink then hurried from the room himself ("To tell Dumbledore!" he whispered in my ear as he walked past on the way out).

Smiling to myself, I snagged a few links of sausage from a nearby bowl, adding them to my plate along with a piece of toast, and settled down to my (now lukewarm) eggs. On my first bite, however, I bit down on something other than egg. Reaching into my mouth, I pulled out a thin cylinder of parchment. Unraveling it, I discovered a message on it that said,

_Look under the bread basket's cover. The professor  
may have need of what is there after today's game._

In the bread basket I found a small book entitled _Advanced Healer's Guide to Spells_. No author was listed; it had been prepared by the staff of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. _What's this about_, I wondered to myself. I checked the note, but there was no signature. _And which professor does it mean_?

I flipped through the pages as I finished eating my eggs and sausage. There were some interesting spells: Flesh-Repairing, Limb-Reattaching and Bone-Healing charms, Skin-Sealing spells, diagnostics, even some strange ones like a Bone-Removing Jinx (to get rid of cursed bones, or bones damaged beyond normal repair) and Transfiguration spells to change human limbs to animal ones for treatment. It would be a very useful book for a Healer; the only question was, who left it in the bread basket, and why?

The owls arrived carrying the days posts along with my Saturday edition of _The Daily Prophet_. I slipped five Knuts into the delivery owl's leg pouch and pushed a small bowl of water and slice of toast toward it as a tip. The owl hooted gratefully and nibbled on the slice of toast as I scanned the front page, scowling as I saw an interview given by Lucius Malfoy, one of the governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _What could he be up to now_? I wondered.

It wasn't hard to guess. Malfoy, all the while offering faint praise for Dumbledore and the school staff, was concerned about the safety of the students here. He didn't come out and _say_ the Chamber of Secrets had been opened (I could imagine he knew by now, as excited as his son Draco had been when he'd read the message Hallowe'en night) but he said nearly everything else, reminding the interviewer of the incidents of fifty years earlier and that someone _who was still at the school_ had been expelled because of it.

Surprised, I thought briefly of Dumbledore but realized that he _couldn't_ have been expelled and still be headmaster. Malfoy went on to suggest that perhaps students would have to be evacuated and the school closed. The writer of the article, special correspondent Rita Skeeter, seemed to agree.

Glancing over the tables of the Great Hall, I saw that a few students were reading the _Prophet_ as well, among them Harry's friend, the bushy-haired Hermione Granger, with a very tense expression on her face. Evidently the idea of closing down the school was upsetting her. Several of the Gryffindor Quidditch players were seated together, but I didn't see Harry among them.

Next to Hermione, Harry's other friend, Ron Weasley, was reading along with her. I could see them speaking to one another but of course I was too far away to hear what was said. After a few minutes Hermione folded the paper closed and she and Weasley left the Great Hall. I saw Hermione glance my way, and I smiled at her, but she gave no reaction, surprisingly. Shrugging inwardly, I went back to reading the paper.

In what seemed like no time it was nearly eleven o'clock, time for the Quidditch match to begin, and I tucked the book of healing magic in my robe and strode out the front doors and across the grounds to the Quidditch stadium. The air was muggy but I heard the sound of distant thunder as I neared the pitch. The stadium was already nearly full, attesting to the popularity of the sport and to the interest Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had in the outcome of this game: Slytherin had dominated the school in Quidditch ever since Charlie Weasley, Ron's older brother, had left the school after his seventh year.

I found the staff section and greeted the other teachers who'd arrived to watch the match. Nearly everyone was there: Dumbledore smiled as I nodded to him, as did Flitwick. McGonagall nodded back, and Snape acknowledged me with a curt shrug.

"Looks like a splendid day for Quidditch," I said to Hagrid, who I was seated next to (as one of the last to arrive, I'd ended up with a seat in the back).

"Yeah," Hagrid grunted, not looking at me. "They'll like that the sun's not out," he muttered. "What I want to know is, how fast those new brooms the Slytherins are usin' will go."

"Wood's had Gryffindor practicing since the beginning of school," Professor McGonagall said, turning around to look at Hagrid. She glanced significantly toward Snape. "_Except_ when they couldn't use the pitch for some reason or another." Snape did not deign to reply. "The better _team_ will prevail, Hagrid," McGonagall finished emphatically.

The Gryffindor team walked onto the pitch, and the stands filled with noise — cheers and whistles from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, boos and hisses from the Slytherins. The Slytherin team was already present on the field, each of the seven team members standing proudly by his Nimbus 2001. I was applauding politely, watching as the Gryffindors took their places on the field and the captains, Oliver Wood for the Gryffindors and Marcus Flint for the Slytherins, shook hands and made ready as Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher and game referee, signaled for the start of the game. The entire stadium roared as the players rose into the air along with the four Quidditch balls.

I watched anxiously as play began, worried by the note I'd read at breakfast. _The professor may have need of what is there after today's game_. I hoped I would be able to tell which professor would need it.

Almost immediately it was evident something was wrong. Harry, flying higher than any other player, dodged a Bludger that barely missed him. One of the Weasley twins streaked after the iron ball, giving it a whack toward a Slytherin, but the ball changed direction immediately and streaked toward Harry again. I watched tensely as Harry dodged again and the Weasley youth knocked it toward Malfoy. But _again_ the Bludger made for Harry! What was going on?

There was a rumble of thunder, now very close, as Harry streaked across the pitch toward the other Weasley twin, the rogue Bludger in hot pursuit. Harry dodged down and the second twin hit the Bludger a terrific smack, knocking it away; but only for a moment. It then turned and flew after Harry, who raced off at full speed to avoid it.

It began to rain. "Hagrid," I said, pointing to the rogue Bludger pursuing Harry. "What's going on with that Bludger? It hasn't gone after anyone but Harry yet."

"Someone's tampered with it," Hagrid said, anger in his normally gentle voice. "It ain't enough the Slytherin's got the fastest bloody brooms made — they gotta cheat as well?" That remark drew a sharp look from Snape.

On the pitch, Wood had called for a timeout and Harry, along with the Weasley twins, had landed on the pitch beside their captain. Both of the Bludgers had automatically retreated into the sky while the timeout was in effect. Looking at the score, I saw that Slytherin had taken advantage of the confusion surrounding the Bludger's behavior: they were now leading 60 to zero.

Down below, we could see Harry, Wood and the other Gryffindor players arguing over something as Madam Hooch approached the group. The Slytherins had landed together as well and were jeering and pointing toward the Gryffindors. She spoke with them for a few seconds; then, on Hooch's whistle, everyone flew back into play.

The rain was really coming down now, making it more difficult to see clearly. I'd silently cast the _Impervius_ spell on myself, as had every other teacher. In the air, Harry now looked as if he were putting on a dizzying exhibition of stunt flying — he rolled, looped, spiraled and zigzagged across the sky as the rogue Bludger chased him. Many of the students were laughing at these antics, even some from Gryffindor, but Harry was just barely avoiding the Bludger, even with all his tricky flying.

"We have to stop this, Albus!" McGonagall was saying to Dumbledore. "That Bludger'll kill him if we don't!"

"It would mean a forfeit for your team, Minerva," Dumbledore said calmly. I saw Snape, looking at the two of them, smile very slightly. "I believe it's up to Mr. Wood to decide whether his team should continue or not, unless someone is injured," the headmaster finished.

At that moment the point became moot — I watched, wincing with sympathy, as the rogue Bludger slammed into Harry's right arm, breaking it and nearly knocking him off his broom.

"That's it!" McGonagall shouted, and stood up to signal Hooch to end the game. Before she could do that, however, Harry, dodging another attack from the Bludger, dived toward Draco Malfoy, his right arm hanging uselessly, who careened out of his way.

Harry grabbed at the air with his left arm, then plowed into the pitch, rolling over and over but somehow coming to his feet as the crowd gasped, then began to cheer and shout when he held his left hand in the air. Clutched in his grasp was the Golden Snitch! Harry smiled in a vague way and said something we couldn't hear. Then he fainted.

"Someone's got to help him!" I shouted. _But who_, I wondered — Madame Pomfrey was still in the infirmary — there was no professor to give the book of magical healing to! Who could it be —?

With a sudden start, I realized what should have been obvious all along: "_The professor_" _was me_! I raced down the steps to the pitch, the other teachers following closely behind me. "Lockhart!" I heard Snape, still in the teacher's section, yelling at me. I ran out onto the pitch and looked up into the stands. "Let Madam Pomfrey handle it!" Snape was shouting down at me.

"I can do it!" I shouted back, then turned and sprinted toward Harry. Halfway there, however, a curious sensation hit me: I felt as though I'd just spun around several times, very fast. The ground now seemed to be rolling to and fro weirdly, even though I knew I was on a flat Quidditch pitch. Instinctively, I did a strange thing: I closed my eyes.

Not being able to see the ground gyrating weirdly helped some. I remembered about where Harry was, ahead of me, and I ran carefully the last few feet and stopped, falling to my knees and opening my eyes. Fortunately, I was only a couple of feet from Harry's unconscious form. I scooted forward and looked down on him, smiling.

Harry was just coming to. His face scrunched up in pain, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked at me and said, "Oh, no, not you."

Not really the response I'd hoped for, but the boy was in terrible pain, of course. I laughed. "Doesn't know what he's saying," I said to the students who were now crowding around me and Harry. I turned back to him, groping in my robe for my wand. "Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm." If I ever found my wand, that is.

"_No_!" Harry said loudly. "I'll keep it like this, thanks…"

I chuckled at his joke, and put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still (and to steady myself — the ground seemed to keep heaving beneath me). The Creevy boy had pushed through the knot of students and was snapping pictures of us. I tried to smile photogenically, but Harry said loudly, "I don't want a photo of this, Colin," and he stopped, looking disappointed.

I looked back at my erstwhile patient. "Lie back, Harry," I said woozily. "It's a simple charm I've just read about this morning," _Or had I just said I'd used it countless times_?

"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" Harry snarled, his teeth clenched together.

Oliver Wood, who'd just ran up, covered in mud, was smiling broadly at Harry in spite of his Seeker's injuries. "He should really, Professor," he agreed, but then added, "Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say —"

_Enough of this mucking about_, I thought testily. _I can do this_. "Stand back," I said, rolling back my sleeves to minimize them interfering with my arm gestures. The Bone-Healing Charm was simple enough, but I wanted to make sure I did it correctly.

Harry was saying something but I paid no mind as I recalled the words and gesture of the charm. Twirling my wand in the manner described in the book, I murmured the words and pointed toward Harry's arm.

There was a white glow and Harry's arm began twitching. Instead of straightening out, however, it began to settle, like a deflating soufflé. The people surrounding us gasped collectively and young Creevy began snapping pictures again madly.

"Ah," I said, looking uncomfortably at Harry's arm, which now resembled a long, thick rubber glove. "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen." Although I had no idea _how_ it had happened. I was _sure_ I had gotten the Bone-Healing spell correct!

"But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the Hospital Wing." I blinked blearily, then saw Ron and Hermione standing nearby, staring at his arm in horror. "Ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him? — and Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a bit." I watched as they helped Harry to his feet, his right arm flopping uselessly at his side, and walked on either side of him back toward the school, followed by the Gryffindor team and a good portion of the students. I still wasn't prepared to get to my feet yet — I had not felt in control of myself since I'd begun running across the pitch toward Harry.

There was a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I turned, fighting the spinning sensation in my head as I did so, to look up into the unsmiling face of Professor Dumbledore.

"Professor Lockhart," he said curtly. "Would you meet me and the other teachers in the staff room in fifteen minutes, please?" Without waiting for a reply he swept on toward the school, followed by the other teachers. I caught a glimpse of Snape looking at me, a smile twitching maliciously at the corner of his mouth. It seemed like I'd been outmaneuvered again.

I got slowly to my feet and, after taking a deep breath, walked forward determinedly, running into the broom shed and falling backwards on the ground. "Bloody hell," I muttered, watching the sky weaving slowly above me.

It took me ten minutes to walk the 200 or so yards back to the school and another ten to find the staff room. Everything seemed to be mixed up and jumbled about in my head. The scene that greeted me as I stepped into the room was grim — all the teachers and staff were there, even Madam Pomfrey from the hospital wing. Snape looked as if he'd drank a gallon of Euphoric Elixir; which was to say, he didn't seem quite as sour as usual.

"Professor Lockhart, if you please." Dumbledore was pointing to a chair placed at the front of the room. I wobbled over and dropped onto it, still not understanding what was happening.

"Harry Potter is in the hospital wing at this moment," Dumbledore said quietly. "The bones of his right arm were removed by the spell you cast in an attempt to repair them. This seems to me to be a matter of gross negligence on your part; the purpose of this school is to educate and protect our students, not to harm them.

"What do you have to say on this matter, Professor Lockhart?"

"I thought I was casting the Bone-Healing Charm —" I began dully.

"_Thought_ you were?" Snape cut over me. "Why would you even _attempt_ such a spell — your specialty is supposed to be the Dark Arts, not the Healer's Art."

"Someone gave me this —" I rummaged around in my robes for several seconds, finally producing the book I'd found at breakfast. "The charm isn't difficult, I —"

"My book!" Madam Pomfrey shrieked, and the book jerked from my hand and flew to her. Pomfrey quickly flipped through the pages. "Yes, it has my notes in it! It's been missing since I returned to school at the beginning of term. He must've stolen it!" she said to Dumbledore, pointing accusingly at me.

"I never saw it before this morning," I objected weakly.

"A convenient excuse," Snape sneered.

"He's been skulking about the place all year," Sprout put in, glaring at me. "Disrupting the other teachers' classes —"

"That only happened once, Pomona," I pointed out.

"Badmouthin' our work about the castle," Hagrid rumbled from the back of the room.

"Giving students access to books they're too young to read," Madam Pince said priggishly.

"I _knew_ this was going to happen!" Professor Trelawney said dramatically.

"He's endangered students more than once," Snape added.

"Goodness, I'm certainly not feeling the love here today," I said plaintively. "I suppose I should just tender my resignation now and save the Headmaster the trouble of sacking me." I stood to leave but the room spun and I flopped back into my chair, then slid onto the floor.

Snape snorted, but Madam Pomfrey, at a look from Dumbledore, hurried forward to examine me. She looked carefully into each of my eyes and passed her wand over me several times, then turned to Dumbledore. "Confunded," she said shortly.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, as if that explained everything. "If you would please, Poppy," he said with a gesture toward me.

Pomfrey waved her wand at me again, and immediately the cobwebs were gone from my head. "My goodness," I said, as Professor Flitwick hurried forward and helped me to my feet. "That certainly makes a world of difference!"

"Undoubtedly," Dumbledore concurred. "And if you were Confunded when you tried to heal Mr. Potter, it would explain why your spell went so badly awry. Do you remember the last time you were thinking clearly?"

Professor Sprout whispered "The 1970's" to Professor Trelawney, and they both tittered until Dumbledore looked at them; they quickly fell silent. "Sorry, Headmaster," Professor Sprout said, almost sounding contrite.

Dumbledore looked back at me as I recalled what happened. "I remember a strange sensation coming over me as I was running across the pitch toward Harry," I said. "I didn't have time to think about it at the time, but I did have difficulty reaching Harry without falling down."

"Remarkable," Dumbledore said. "Most wizards, when affected by the Confundus Charm, are unable to even walk a straight line, much less continue running."

"Perhaps," Professor Snape offered dryly, "Professor Lockhart's normal disposition is closer to being Confunded than the average wizard."

"That hardly seems likely, Severus," Dumbledore said reproachfully, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"So, who did it?" I asked. "Who Confunded me?" There was no reply. "Someone who didn't want me to get to Harry, obviously." I looked hard at Snape, who stared implacably back. "They didn't count on my iron constitution to get me to Harry's side, no matter what spell I'd been hit with."

"Quite commendable, Gilderoy," Dumbledore agreed placidly. "However, in this particular case, it seems your iron constitution ended up being more of a hindrance than a help. We may never know the identity of the person who Confunded you. However, I am satisfied that the damage done to Mr. Potter's arm was due to you being under the Confundus Charm, and that you are therefore not to blame for his injury."

No one said anything for several seconds. Finally, I said, mockingly, "'Wow, congratulations for being innocent, Professor Lockhart! We're sure sorry we doubted you, Professor Lockhart! Welcome back, Professor Lockhart, and well done for trying to help Harry!'

"What rubbish," I snapped, got up and walked out of the staff room. No one tried to stop me. I stalked up to my office, locking the door behind me.

"Listen, listen!" my portrait hanging over the crack was saying as I threw myself down at my desk. "You'll never believe what's been going on down in the staff room! They've really been raking some poor bloke over the coals down there —"

"Oh, shut up!"


	12. Chapter 12

I spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday in an extremely bad mood, sulking in my room and going through various monster books, to see if I could find any that might fit the description of what had been attacking students at Hogwarts over the past few months. I had acquired copies of several beast books from the Library and was going through them, having gotten to the _Fwooper_ in Scamander's _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ when I my stomach reminded me it was time for lunch.

I left my room only for meals, and didn't smile or talk to anyone. In fact, the only person I interacted with at all that weekend was Hermione Granger, who happened to pass me in a hallway Sunday as I was going back to my room from lunch. She stopped as I approached, offering a breathless, "Hello, Professor Lockhart!" as I walked by. I considered not bothering to stop or talk to her, but I had to admit to a certain curiosity — it was obvious I was in a right foul mood, yet she'd greeted me anyway. She had a hopeful, expectant look on her face. I sighed and stopped, looking at her grumpily.

"Hello, Miss Granger," I said shortly, still not smiling. "What are you up to?"

"I'm, I'm meeting Harry and Ron for lunch," she said, with an apprehensive yet curious expression on her face.

"Mmm," I said disinterestedly. "Well, off you go, then."

But Hermione didn't move. "Professor," she said timidly, "w-what happened?"

"What do you mean?" I said harshly. "Happened when?"

"Out — out on the Quidditch pitch, with Harry's arm?" She seemed compelled to ask the question, though I sensed, with some resentment, that she had doubts about me, the same way the teaching staff had.

"I was Confunded," I said flatly. "That was why I cast the wrong spell on Harry."

"Oh!" she said, her face brightening, then becoming confused again. "But who would put a Confundus Charm on _you_, sir?"

I shook my head. "No one knows," I said with heavy irony. I was perfectly sure it had been Snape.

But I couldn't have expected her next remark. "It could have been the house-elf that's been bothering Harry this year, the one that caused the Bludger to attack him."

"A house-elf?" I said, surprised. "Was it Boddy?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, you must've heard wrong, sir. His name is Dobby. He also kept Harry and Ron from getting on the train September first — that's why they took Ron's father's car and drove it here from London." She wrung her hands worriedly. "And now with the Chamber of Secrets being opened, and Colin Creevy Petrified —"

"What's this?" I stopped her. "What did you just say?"

"Colin Creevy, the first year with the camera," Hermione explained. "He was brought into the hospital wing last night, Petrified. Harry was there and still awake, and he saw them, though he pretended to be asleep. He'd just finished talking to Dobby, who admitted to tampering with the Bludger so it would injure Harry and he'd have to be sent home."

"A house-elf named _Dobby_ has been doing all this?" I said, incredulous. "To _Harry_?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "But that's not the problem."

"It's _not_?" I sputtered, openmouthed.

"No, sir. It's the Chamber of Secrets being opened, _again_." She leaned forward, her young face becoming eager as she got into the meat of her information. "Dobby told Harry all this last night, and he told us earlier this morning in — er — where — where we saw him earlier," she finished, looking uncomfortable.

"So this Dobby," I said, my head reeling, "_he_ came from the Chamber of Secrets, then?"

"Oh, no!" she said quickly. "Dobby works for the Malfoys —"

_Oho_! I thought. _The Malfoys_!

"— but we don't know what the monster from the Chamber is," Hermione continued. "It might be able to turn invisible, or change its shape like a Chameleon Ghoul, as you described in _Gadding with Ghouls_, on page 143 —"

"But it's able to _Petrify_ people," I interrupted. "What kind of monster can do that?"

She took the question as if I were testing her. "Well, none, sir," she said with an uncharacteristic shrug. "There's the Body-Bind Curse, but it's a spell; a wizard would have to cast it, not a monster. That's why no one can figure out what's gotten loose. Ron's little sister Ginny is having nightmares." I frowned; that explained why Ginny, who'd been gregarious at the start of term, had become more and more withdrawn as the year progressed.

"Thank you for letting me know all this," I said, and meant it. I'd learned more from Hermione in the past five minutes than in all the previous three months! And there was another piece of the Malfoy puzzle in place. A wealthy Wizarding family like the Malfoys, it stood to reason they would own a house-elf. Apparently they'd sicced him onto Harry Potter.

Hermione was blushing. She nodded and was about to turn away, when another thought occurred to me. "By the way," I said shrewdly. "How was that book you checked out of the Restricted Section? Did it make for good background reading?"

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening in surprise. Perhaps she thought I'd forgotten all about it. "It was very interesting, sir. Thank you for giving me permission to read it."

"Would you mind giving me an essay on it, then?" I asked. "Covering all the major sections of the book? Say about two feet worth?"

"Of — of course," she said, and actually smiled at me. "I'd really like that! Thank you, Professor!" Blushing furiously, she ran off down the corridor, leaving me baffled, but still much better informed than I'd been ten minutes ago.

***

At least now I had an idea what I was up against. The Malfoys had sent a house-elf to Hogwarts to cause disruption and chaos, hoping to get the school closed. It was now just a matter of finding and capturing the little bugger. And I had a pretty good idea that to catch a house-elf, it takes a house-elf.

However, the more I tried to get Boddy to show himself again, the more reclusive he (and all the other house-elves at Hogwarts) seemed to get. No matter how many times I called for him, or for any house-elf, to appear before me, a Hogwarts teacher, nothing happened. I began throwing extra paper and trash into the dustbins in my office, telling my portraits to call me the moment they saw a house-elf, but the next morning the dustbins would be empty and my pictures all sleeping peacefully.

All of my classes were similarly uneventful that week as well, except that Harry and his friends seemed to be distracted by some other activity: they engaged in extended whispering conversations in the back of the classroom, all three of them rushing out when the bell rang. In my first year classes, Ronald Weasley's sister Ginny was getting more and more tense with each passing day, although I noted she kept copious notes of what I was saying: every time I looked at her in class she was writing in a small black notebook. I was glad to see at least _someone_ was paying attention to me!

Friday of that week we had our usual morning staff meeting. Professor McGonagall let us know how many students would be staying at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays. Not many students were planning on staying, it turned out; and, while McGonagall wouldn't say it outright, it seemed that most were going home for the holidays because they were nervous about the Chamber of Secrets and the Heir of Slytherin that had been released from it. I chuckled inwardly. If only they realized it was simply some naughty little house-elf acting under its masters' orders!

"Something amusing, Lockhart?" Snape said coldly, seeing me smile.

I wasn't about to give him any ammunition against me, so I just smiled benignly and said, "I've had a very pleasant week so far, Professor Snape."

"Well, I have something not so pleasant to report this morning," Snape said sourly. "Last night while taking inventory of potion supplies in my office I discovered a significant amount of boomslang skin had gone missing."

"Oh my lord," I said in mock horror. "Snape's office has been burgled! Alert the _Daily Prophet_ — this ranks right up there with the Gringotts robbery a year ago!"

There were some chuckles around the staff table, but Professor McGonagall was not amused. "This is not a laughing matter, Professor Lockhart. Thievery of this kind should not be tolerated at Hogwarts." She looked at Snape. "Do you have any idea who might have taken it, Professor?"

"It happened during the second years' double class with Gryffindor and Slytherin," Snape said at once. "There was an … altercation during class where one of the student's cauldrons exploded." Snape reached into a pocket and produced a piece of charred paper. "This Filibuster firework had been thrown into the cauldron by, I suspect, Harry Potter."

There was a collective sigh around the staff table. "Really, Severus — Harry Potter _again_?" McGonagall said wearily. "If he was responsible for half of what you accuse him of doing, he would be expelled by now!"

"I seem to recall him almost _being_ expelled at the beginning of the year for flying a car from London to Hogwarts and nearly demolishing the Whomping Willow by landing on it," Snape pointed out, his voice barely concealing the cold fury in his eyes. "However, you and the Headmaster saw fit to excuse him."

"He wasn't _excused_, Severus," McGonagall corrected, the coldness in her tone matching his own. "He was given detention and warned that the next time he put a toe out of line he'd _be_ expelled."

The other teachers in the staff meeting were watching this confrontation with vivid fascination, mesmerized by the war of wills taking place before them.

"Must I point out," Snape went on implacably. "Boomslang skin is an ingredient used in Polyjuice Potion? And that Potter was given access, from the Restricted Section of the Library, to a book that describes how Polyjuice Potion is _made_?"

"Actually," McGonagall pointed out,_ "Hermione_ _Granger_, not Potter, was given permission to check out that book by Professor Lockhart."

"One's as good as the other with that lot," Snape sneered.

"Now, Severus," Professor Flitwick put in mildly, his high, squeaky voice sounded out of place after listening to Snape and McGonagall argue. "You know that's not true — Miss Granger has almost never been in trouble in all the time she's been here. In fact, she's an exemplary student."

The other teachers nodded agreement with Flitwick. "Very well," Snape said to McGonagall. "Do as you see fit, then. But mark my words — there is trouble coming, and those three — Potter, Weasley, and Miss Know-It-All Granger — will be in the thick of it."

And on that note Professor McGonagall dismissed us all to breakfast and our morning classes. I joined Professor Flitwick at the High Table for a quick conversation about my next dueling lesson.

"I'd like to get one or two more in before we hold the first Dueling Club meeting," I said in a low voice, trying not to attract attention to our conversation. "Do you think we can meet tonight, Filius?"

"I — I think so," Professor Flitwick said, looking at me nervously. He seemed unusually tense.

"Are you alright, old boy?" I asked, concerned. "You look pale as a ghost!" Since I could see Nearly-Headless Nick floating 15 or 20 feet away, floating past a row of Gryffindors at their table, I had a pretty good chance to compare their respective pallor!

"Just — just a little rushed — this time of year, you know," Flitwick said dismissively. "I hope I'll be fine by tonight. If not, I'll let you know."

After dinner that night, however, Flitwick failed to show up for our 8 p.m. dueling lesson. By 8:30 I was becoming worried; he was usually very punctual. I paced back and forth across my office, waiting for some word from him. There was a soft clacking sound, like a doorknob being opened, and I turned to the door of my office, expecting to see Flitwick coming in. But there was no one there. Bemused, I turned back to my desk —

Boddy, standing on top of it, bowed low and said, "Boddy begs your pardon, Professor Lockhart —"

"_Whoa_!" I jerked back, startled. Then, recovering, I put my hands on my hips and said crossly, "Boddy! Where the devil have you been? I've been trying to find you for a week now!"

"Boddy apologizes most abjectly for not appearing when you called, sir," Boddy said, bowing so low he nearly rapped his forehead on the edge of my desk. "But Boddy was afraid you were angry with him."

"Why would I be angry with —" A sudden, horrible suspicion crept into my mind. "Boddy, _you_ didn't Confund me at the Quidditch match, did you?"

"Oh, no, sir!" Boddy looked horrified. "Boddy would never attack a wizard like that, sir!"

I believed him, but another thought came to mind. "Did _Dobby_ attack me then, do you know?"

"Dobby?" The house-elf looked surprised. "He would never attack a wizard either, sir!"

"He attacked Harry Potter at the Quidditch match, didn't he?" I pointed out. "He told Harry so!"

"But not to harm him, sir!" Boddy cried. "Dobby was trying to _protect_ Harry Potter, sir!"

"That's a pretty strange way of protecting someone, sending a Bludger after him to bash his brains out," I said sardonically, sitting down in a chair in front of my desk.

"Harry Potter is not safe here at Hogwarts!" Boddy jumped down from my desk, approaching me. His small, gnarled hands were held before him imploringly. "We must find a way to send him home on the Hogwarts Express and keep him there!"

"Or — what?" I asked, somewhere between amusement and curiosity. Harry wasn't one to run away from a dangerous situation, I knew.

Boddy looked at me, his green eyes large with fear. "Or — or something too terrible to contemplate, sir! Someone may be killed!"

"Like Harry?"

"Yes! Yes!" Boddy practically jumped into my lap — he was clutching at my robes. "Harry Potter must not die, sir!"

"There have already been a few close calls," I pointed out. "First the caretaker's cat was Petrified — then a first year named Colin Creevy, who's in the hospital wing now, got it as well." I looked hard at the house-elf. "If there's something you know about all this, Boddy, you should take it up with the Headmaster."

"Boddy cannot interfere, sir! Boddy is only a house-elf!"

"You keep saying that," I said, trying to sound matter-of-factual. "But neither you nor this Dobby friend of yours seems to really believe it. Didn't he try to keep Harry from coming to Hogwarts at the beginning of the year? Didn't he enchant that Bludger to attack Harry, knowing it could seriously injure him?

"And _you_," I pointing at Boddy, who flinched. "You've helped me quite a bit this year, haven't you?"

"More than you may remember, sir," Boddy nodded. "But it is difficult…"

"What's difficult?" I snapped, about ready to lose all patience with Boddy's circumspect behavior. "What can be so bleeding difficult about going to Dumbledore and telling him what's happening-?"

Boddy looked around fearfully, then leaned close to me and said, "There…are…_secrets_ —" Suddenly he turned and ran, full-tilt, into the side of my desk, bouncing back almost to my feet. Then, leaping back to his feet, he did it _again_, falling back half-stunned.

"Stop it!" I shouted, but Boddy, unsteadily scrambling to his feet once more, was looking around to find something even harder. He charged at a suit of armor standing against a nearby wall as I hastily pulled out my wand, pointed it at him and shouted, "_Locomotor Mortis_!"

The Leg-Locker Curse instantly froze his legs, and Boddy toppled over onto the floor. He began dragging himself forward toward the armor, and I plucked him off the floor, tossing him into one of my chairs with his legs still frozen in mid-run.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Boddy?" I said loudly, leaning down to speak directly in his face. "Why'd you just try to knock yourself senseless?"

"B-Boddy nearly broke the — the primary law of our servitude," the house-elf choked out. "Be-betraying our m-master…"

"But _Dumbledore's_ your master," I said, surprised and dismayed by what he was saying. "Are you saying that Dumbledore is keeping some kind of _secret_?" Something about the _Chamber of Secrets_, perhaps, I wondered to myself.

"Dumbledore knows nothing of this!" Boddy said emphatically. "Even _he_ cannot protect Harry Potter!"

"He's been doing a good job so far," I disagreed. "And, if Harry joins the Dueling Club I'm starting next week, he'll learn how to protect himself as well."

Boddy was shaking his head violently from side to side. "No! No! No! Bad idea, Professor Lockhart, sir! Bad idea! Harry Potter must leave Hogwarts _forever_!"

"That's _not_ going to happen, Boddy," I said sharply. "I've learned enough about Harry in the past few months to know he prefers being here to being with his relatives. They're Muggles, and they don't like him, and he doesn't like them."

"Better for Harry Potter to be alive somewhere he doesn't like than dead _here_!" Boddy said desperately. "He cannot be permitted to stay! He cannot be permitted to learn dueling!"

"Boddy," I said dangerously. "Don't you get any ideas about sabotaging my Dueling Club, you hear me?"

"But —"

"But, nothing," I cut him off, then stood, looming over the house-elf as he cowered before me, trapped in the chair by his frozen legs. "You cannot do anything to stop or hinder the Dueling Club _in any way_, Dobby! _Professor Dumbledore_ gave me permission to have a Dueling Club, so if you go against me, you're going against him as well. Do you understand?"

Boddy was silent for some time, a look of resigned resentment on his face, made comical by his large eyes, long nose and tall, pointed ears. He looked like a petulant six-year-old in a Hallowe'en mask. Finally: "Boddy understands, Professor Lockhart, sir," he mumbled.

"Fine. Tell me again what you're going to do about my Dueling Club."

"Nothing, sir."

I nodded. "Good! Now I have some questions about this Dobby character —"

But Boddy shook his head violently. "Boddy can say no more!" With a sharp _crack_ he vanished from my sight.

I wasn't sure if Boddy would actually honor his commitment to obey my and Dumbledore's orders, even though he'd never disobeyed me before, so far as I knew. Well, only time would tell, I decided.

Meanwhile, the Dueling Club, and dueling in general, continued to give me fits. I found Flitwick the morning after our missed appointment and asked him what had become of him the night before. The normally affable Charms teacher was unusually reticent about his reasons for not showing up.

When I pressed him to set another meeting date, he finally broke down. "Hang it all, Gilderoy! You don't need me teaching you dueling anymore, you've got Snape!"

"I don't _want_ Snape, Filius," I snapped back at him. "Snape's the _problem_, not the solution!"

"What do you mean?" Flitwick was eyeing me warily.

"I think Snape's a Death Eater," I said in a low tone.

"Well he _was_," Flitwick replied surprisingly. "But he came over to our side." I made a rude noise. "It's true!" Flitwick insisted. "Dumbledore has vouched for him personally."

"Like that would really make a difference," I said sarcastically.

"He's vouched for _you_, you know," Flitwick pointed out, his temper now showing some. All of Dumbledore's teaching staff seemed very loyal to him, I had to admit. "The board of governors were none too happy with the choice to bring you on board the staff here, I can tell you! Only Lucius Malfoy approved of you."

_Malfoy's name keeps popping up in all this_, I thought to myself. _If only I knew what _my_ role in all this was supposed to be_!

"I'm sorry, Gilderoy," Flitwick finished, looking determined. "But I can no longer teach you dueling. I think the situation is much too confusing and unclear for me to do so any more." With a final sigh, he turned and walked quickly away from me.

"Fine," I said to his receding back. "I don't need any more of your lessons, anyway! I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, you know — I've got half a dozen books that show I know how to duel _already_!"

Now if only I'd actually _put_ something about dueling into them…

On top of Flitwick abandoning me, it somehow slipped McGonagall's mind to actually write up a notice for the Dueling Club until the day Snape and I "agreed" it would begin, the third Thursday of December, less than a week before the Christmas holidays began. We wouldn't be able to have the next one until _after_ the holidays, three weeks later.

Somehow, I suspected this was part of Snape's plans.

However, the night of the first meeting there was an excellent turn-out, with several dozen students milling about the Great Hall when Snape and I entered. Professor McGonagall had rearranged the Hall after dinner, removing the House tables and setting up a golden platform along the wall opposite the Entrance Hall doors.

I smiled, seeing Harry and his friends present as well as many students from among the various years. Striding up the stairway to the stage, I waved to everyone for silence, then motioned for them to come forward toward the stage. "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works," I added jauntily, knowing they already had copies of them.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," I said, smiling brilliantly, knowing it would infuriate him to be called "my assistant." "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry," I said with a broad wink at the lot of them. "You'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear." I smiled as some comments and laughter ran through the assembled students — it was pure pleasure to imagine what Snape must be thinking right now. I could see his mouth twisting in suppressed anger.

With a nod toward the Potions master we faced each other across the stage. We were already far enough apart that it wasn't necessary to step off the prescribed distance — in any event, from the expression on his face, I wasn't too keen on shaking Snape's hand before the duel, the usual custom in formal dueling competitions. I bowed, making it very flourished and elegant, twirling my hands for good effect. Snape, of course, simply dipped his chin toward me with a jerk. The man had absolutely no sense of style, I thought derisively. Ah well — on with the lesson. We then assumed the "at ready" or _en guard_ position, our wands held before us.

"As you see," I told the raptly watching throng of students, "we are holding our wands in the accepted combative positions. On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

I'd added that mostly for Snape's benefit: if looks could kill, the Potion master would have me dead already, he looked so grim and furious. I began the count: "One — two — three —"

At the count of three we both raised our wands over our heads. I knew that, if we both cast Disarming Charms, it might look rather silly if we both managed to disarm each other, our wands flying out of both our hands at the same time. What I planned, then was to cast a silent Shield Charm, deflecting his Disarming Charm. It would provide a good display for the watching crowd.

True to form, Snape cried "Expelliarmus!" and I moved my wand, silently casting _Protego_. However, almost as soon as the Shield began to form in front of me, it evaporated, allowing Snape's spell to strike me full in the chest.

Snape's spell was clearly aimed at _me_, not at my wand, and I flew helplessly off the stage and slammed into the wall, sprawling onto the floor below. That spell had packed quite a punch! My wand had flown out of my hand anyway; even my hat was missing. I slowly climbed back onto the stage, determined not to let Snape see he'd done me any harm.

"Well, there you have it!" I said, smiling as if in no pain at all. "That was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I've lost my wand." A second year girl ran up and handed it back to me, then retreated, giggling. "Ah, thank you, Miss Brown," I said to her, then turned back to Snape. "Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind me saying so —" _and even if you do, you ruddy git_ "— it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy." _Now, if I could just figure out why I _couldn't_ stop you…_ "However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…"

I trailed off, seeing blood in Snape's eyes. I suppose I could push him only so far, and no farther, so I switched tactics. "Enough demonstrating!" I said quickly. "I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me —"

I began teaming up pairs of students, trying to keep same years together and whenever possible, match up people who knew one another. At least for this first lesson, I felt, it would be better for the students to be at ease.

Snape, however, had other plans. He put Ron Weasley with Seamus Finnegan — safe enough, I supposed, although Weasley's broken wand produced unexpected results at times. Then I saw him match Harry Potter with Draco Malfoy, and Hermione Granger with Millicent Bulstrode, a much larger girl, and I foresaw disaster. But there was nothing else for it. With the rest of the students paired off, Snape and I returned to the platform.

"Face your partners," I called out. "And bow!" I watched as the various pairs of students more or less bowed to one another.

"Wands at the ready!" I said loudly enough for everyone to hear clearly. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent — _only_ to disarm them — we don't want any accidents." Especially not to Harry, I thought, wishing I'd gotten to him before Snape had. "One… two… three —"

There was a confused shouting and bolts of various colors shot across the Great Hall. I saw Draco Malfoy doubled over, laughing madly — but Harry was still standing, watching him, so no harm done there. Elsewhere, however —

"_I said disarm only_!" I roared — but, as I watched, helpless, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry and shouted "_Tarantallegra_!" Harry's legs began jerking about madly beneath him. "Stop! Stop!" I screamed for order.

Snape stepped past me, pointing his wand at the pair and shouting "_Finite Incantatem_!" and Harry and Draco stopped dancing and laughing, respectively. They looked at each other: Draco smirking, Harry solemn-faced.

I surveyed the scene. It wasn't very pretty. There was green smoke wafting up toward the ceiling, and many of the students were lying or sitting on the floor, looking dumbly up at us on the platform. Two students, however, were still dueling, though neither of them had wands: Millicent Bulstrode had Hermione in a headlock. As I watched, Harry ran over and pulled the large Slytherin girl away from her. Sighing, I walked down the stairs to the floor of the Great Hall. Near the front of the platform, one of the Gryffindor boys was shaking his head groggily. "Up you go, Macmillan," I said, helping him to his feet, then turned to his partner. "Careful there, Miss Fawcet…" Further on, another student was trying to stop her nose from bleeding. "Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —"

I decided it would be better to teach them how to block unfriendly spells, and was preparing to have Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley do the honors, when Snape stepped in again.

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," he said, almost sneering as he approached us. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox." Justin gulped and Neville turned bright pink. "How about Malfoy and Potter?" Snape suggested. _Again with those two_, I thought disgustedly. Could Snape be any more obvious with his biases? But, I was still determined not to show any annoyance.

"Excellent idea!" I said cheerfully, and motioned for Harry and Draco to come to the center of the hall as the other students backed away and formed an open area for them to duel in.

I moved toward Harry, to show him the Shield Charm spell. "Now Harry, when Draco points his wand at you, you do this."

I went into the wand motions for the Shield Charm, but my arms began moving wildly, almost of their own accord, and my wand slipped from my fingers, clattering on the floor. "Whoops — my wand is a little overexcited," I said lamely, embarrassed and wonderting what had just happened with my arms.

"Professor," Harry said as I turned to find my wand. "Could you show me that me that blocking thing again?"

I found my wand, then smiled and patted Harry on the shoulder. "Just do what I did, Harry."

"What," he replied plaintively, "drop my wand?"

_Very funny, Harry_, I thought, but began counting. "Three — two — one — go!"

Malfoy cast his spell first, shouting "_Serpensortia_!" An interesting spell to cast, I thought vaguely, as a snake erupted from the end of Malfoy's wand, landing in front of Harry and rearing up to hiss at him. Harry stared at it, transfixed, and Snape moved forward lazily to get rid of it, but I intervened first.

"Allow me!" I stepped in front of Snape, gesturing with my wand and wordlessly casting _Evanesco_ to get rid of the snake.

Instead of Vanishing, however, there was a loud _bang_ and the snake flew straight up into the air. I watched in disbelief as it came back down exactly it had been. Why hadn't my Vanishing Spell made it _vanish_, for pity's sake…?

The snake, hissing angrily, slithered toward Justin and reared up again, fangs exposed to strike. Someone had to act —

Amazingly, Harry himself stepped forward and _hissed_ at the snake! Just as amazingly, the snake dropped to the ground, turning to look at Harry. The Great Hall had gone completely silent — no one had expected what had just happened.

Even Harry didn't seem to know what he'd done; he was grinning at Finch-Fletchley, who snapped, "What do you think you're playing at?" at Harry before pelting out of the Great Hall.

Harry looked utterly nonplussed. He was staring at Snape, and I was staring at him. He barely reacted when his friend Ron came up behind him, pulling him toward the exit along with Hermione, then finally hustling him out of the room.

I walked up to Snape, too bewildered to even be angry with him. "What in the world just happened?" I asked.

"Interesting," Snape said, his mouth twisted in a most malicious-looking grin. "Potter is a Parselmouth."

"A _what_?" I asked, stupidly. I'd seen the word before but was too dazed to recollect properly what it meant.

"He can speak to snakes," Snape said. "A useful gift — for the Heir of Slytherin to have," he added, then turned and walked away to dismiss the other students.

In shock, I returned to my office. Is that what it was coming to? Was _Harry Potter_ the Heir of Slytherin? Based on what Boddy believed, it didn't seem possible. But I had heard, with my own ears, Harry speak to the snake. A quick bit of research revealed that Parselmouths were rare in the Wizarding world; only a few were known, such as Salazar Slytherin himself. If Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, then Boddy's friend Dobby might be right — the best place for Harry might be away from Hogwarts — for the other students' sake, not for his.

And to top it all off, there was a blizzard raging outside when everyone woke up Friday morning. In the staff meeting that morning, Professor Sprout fretted about the Mandrakes, wanting to make sure they were kept warm. I offered to help her with the task, but she declined. Professor McGonagall decided to have Herbology classes for the day canceled so Sprout could take care of the precious Mandrakes, now needed to revive both Filch's cat and the Creevy boy.

The inside classes were still held, so I spent the morning in my first and fifth year classes, practicing Disarming Charms. Ron's sister Ginny was coming along nicely, I thought — she was easily the most capable in her class, and she knocked my wand from my grasp more than once when I faced her across the classroom. But for all that, her heart didn't seem to be in it — I expected the poor girl was still having nightmares.

At lunch there was another rude shock, as we learned there were two more Petrifactions — a second year Hufflepuff, Justin Finch-Fletchley and, amazingly, the Gryffindor ghost Nearly-Headless Nick. Rumors were rampant around the Great Hall at lunch that Harry Potter had attacked Finch-Fletchley because of what had happened at the Dueling Club the night before. McGonagall ordered the cancellation of the remainder of classes for the day, and there was a stampede on her office by most of the school's students to book seats on the Hogwarts Express, once they learned Harry Potter would be staying at school over the Christmas holidays.

_But that doesn't explain Nearly-Headless Nick_! I thought to myself. Not one of the staff knew of any reason Harry might have to be upset with the Gryffindor House ghost — in fact, a few recalled that Harry, Ron and Hermione had passed up the Hallowe'en feast back in October to attend Nick's 500th Deathday celebration in one of the castle's dungeons.

Later in the afternoon I was sitting in my office for the last hour or so of the day, thinking about what I would do at home for the holidays. It would mean dealing with Mrs. Witherhams again, but after the last few months here, with the hostility of the staff against me, especially Snape, even Mrs. Witherhams was beginning to look good. I chuckled to myself, thinking I would seriously have to get out more when I started looking forward to seeing _her_ again.

A Galleon I'd been flipping idly dropped to the floor; I sighed and bent over, reaching for it beneath the desk, but it was just out of reach. Grumbling, I slid off my chair and inched forward under the desk until my fingers closed about it.

Just as I was about to get out, however, I heard the door of my office open and a young girl's voice said, "Hello?" I said nothing, not wanting to be caught in this rather awkward position, and a moment later I heard the door close again. Whoever it was must have left. But a moment later I heard a shaky sob — there was someone still in the room, and she was crying.

I snuck a peek over the top of my desk. It was Ginny Weasley. She was sitting on the sofa I kept near the door of my office for the not-so-rare occasions when I had more than two students (usually female) in at the same time. Her face was cradled in her hands and her breathing was ragged as she sobbed into them. I wondered if it would help her to have an adult to talk to.

I got silently to my feet, suppressing a grunt of stiffness that reminded me I was no longer young, then said softly, "Ginny." She jerked at the sound of my voice, her eyes wide with surprise to find someone in the office after all. "Sorry," I said gently, trying to make her feel calm. "I don't think I heard you come in. Are you all right?"

She was quickly drying her tears, embarrassed. "Sorry, Professor Lockhart," she said through her sniffles. "I didn't mean to bother you." She got to her feet to leave.

"Oh, no bother," I said quickly. "You know, I can't help but notice you seem upset about something… Would it help to talk about it, perhaps?"

She looked at me with big, hopeful eyes, but was still uncertain. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know. I can't even say _what's_ wrong with me, really."

I moved to sit down on the couch with her, and she returned to her seat as well. "Why don't you have a go at it and we'll see if I can help," I prompted her.

She took a deep breath. "I've been having — well — dreams, I guess," she said, her mouth twisting.

"Dreams, or nightmares?" I asked. "About what?"

"Nightmares, I guess," Ginny admitted. "I'm doing bad — horrible things, really. Hurting animals — like — like the roosters that — that were killed. And — and — I — I even dreamed I k-killed a cat, just — just by _looking_ at it!" She put her hand to her mouth, horrified to even say such things aloud. "I _love_ cats, Professor Lockhart! I would never, _ever_ hurt one!"

I was nodding, but not just to agree with her. A number of details from several books had suddenly come together in my mind: an animal that could kill by sight alone, and was feared by all other animals _except roosters_, which had the power to kill it! At last, I had recognized what animal she was talking about: it was a Basilisk, also called the King of Serpents.

So far, however, no one had actually died from any of the attacks, which was a vote against it being a Basilisk. But I remembered now, Professor McGonagall telling us in a staff meeting that the film in Creevy's camera had been destroyed as he tried to take a picture of the monster. If he'd been looking through a camera lens, he wouldn't have seen the Basilisk's gaze directly. Nearly Headless Nick, being a ghost, probably couldn't die again, but even ghosts could be affected by a Basilisk's stare, it seemed. And I remembered looking through his silvery, transparent form; if Finch-Fletchley had seen the Basilisk the same way, his life may have been spared.

I wasn't going to tell Ginny my suspicions, but there was one question I had to ask. "Has Harry Potter been in any of your nightmares, Ginny?"

"What? No! Harry has nothing to do with this!" She was frightened by the question, and I hastened to allay her fears.

"Don't worry," I said. "That's a good thing, that you're not seeing Harry. I had to ask since some people think Harry might be the one causing all the problems with people being Petrified in the first place."

"Oh," she said, calmer for a moment; but then her eyes grew wide again, and she asked, "Professor, d'you think _I've_ got something to do with those people who were — were —" she couldn't finish the sentence.

"I don't think so, not directly at least," I said, pondering what might be causing her nightmares. "Perhaps you're in communication with the one who is, somehow. Do you have anything in your possession given to you by someone you don't know, at home or school, perhaps?"

Ginny was shaking her head, but she did look startled for a moment, then glanced at the pile of schoolbooks sitting beside her on the sofa. She looked back at me and said, "N-no," so obviously lying that I couldn't help but smile at her.

I wasn't going to try and force a confession out of her, so I said, "Well, if you think of anything that might fit that description, Ginny, you should probably get rid of it as soon as possible. Especially if your nightmares continue. If you find anything like that, you can bring it to me. Okay?"

She nodded and got to her feet, picking up her books and giving me a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Professor Lockhart, for talking to me," she said, touching my wrist with her hand. "I'll remember what you said."

"Good girl," I said gently. "If you need to talk again, you can come to me anytime." She nodded and slipped out through my office door. I went back to my desk and sat down again. It wasn't a minute later that I heard a soft _crack_ and, once again, the sound of someone sobbing. This time, coming around to the front of my desk, I found Boddy sitting there, tears streaming down his face.

"Woe is Boddy, sir!" he sobbed, looking up at me. "Woe is all of us! We are undone!"

I didn't know what he was blubbering about but I wasn't inclined to be very sympathetic. "I'm not stupid, Boddy — I know you were keeping my spells from working at the Dueling Club meeting yesterday evening, even though you promised you wouldn't interfere!"

Boddy, sniffling and hiccupping, shook his head no. "Boddy kept his word not to interfere with Professor Lockhart's meeting, sir!"

"So why didn't my spells work?" I snapped. "My _Protego_ spell failed against Snape's Disarming Charm! I tried to show it to Harry and my arms went crazy! And, when I tried to make the snake disappear with the Vanishing Spell! By disobeying me, you also disobeyed Professor Dumbledore!" I finished, harshly.

"Boddy did _nothing_ against Professor Lockhart _or_ Professor Dumbledore, sir!" Boddy continued to protest.

"_Then why didn't my spells work_?!"

"Dobby stopped them, sir!" Boddy squeaked, then leaped up and began smashing his head against the side of my desk. I quickly grabbed him and tossed him into a nearby chair.

"Stop doing that!" I ordered him. Then I realized — "You told Dobby about the Dueling Club, didn't you?"

"Harry Potter mustn't be allowed to stay at Hogwarts!" Boddy blubbered. "Dobby went to prevent him from learning to duel! But _now_!" he shrieked, and I reflexively stepped back, surprised by the ferocity of his howl. "Now it does not matter, sir! We are undone!"

"What do you mean, Boddy?" I said, half covering my ears. "Explain yourself! Why doesn't it matter?"

"Because Harry Potter is the HEIR OF SLYTHERIN!!" Boddy screeched at the top of his lungs, collapsing onto the floor and covering his face with his hands, sobbing into them.

"Oh," I said, and laughed.

Boddy looked at me with incredulity. "Professor Lockhart _laughs_? All of sir's plans are undone as well! All is lost!"

"No, Boddy," I said, shaking my head with a smile. "Because Harry Potter is _not_ the Heir of Slytherin."

"But — but — Dobby saw him speak to the snake in Parseltongue," Boddy said, still not willing to believe me. "Boddy saw it too, sir!"

"As did I," I concurred. "It's pretty damning evidence, I agree. But, I got some additional information just before you showed up, indicating that Harry Potter is _not_ the Heir of Slytherin."

Boddy looked up at me expectantly. "His friend Ron Weasley's sister Ginny has been having nightmares," I explained. "About a monster that can kill just by looking at you."

Boddy gasped. "The Serpent-King!" he said in a near-whisper.

"If that means a Basilisk, I agree," I nodded. "I think she's communicating with whoever's controlling the Basilisk, somehow. I'm not sure whether she even knows how or not."

And I had just realized something else. "You know, if Harry hadn't come to school this fall, no one might've heard the Basilisk slithering through the walls of the castle." I had heard it myself, through the crack in my office wall, and it had sounded like old pipes hissing and expanding. _But Harry, being a Parselmouth, had heard a voice_! He'd asked me about it, but I'd heard nothing like what he had, evidently.

Dobby looked overawed. His legs seemed to lose strength, and he sank into the cushion of the char. "So Harry Potter _had_ to come to Hogwarts!" he squeaked. "And Dobby was — _wrong_."

"Or led astray," I said grimly. "By Lucius Malfoy."

Boddy looked at me, then at the desk, biting his knuckles. But before he could do anything, I put out a hand to stop him, saying, "You don't have to say anything about who's doing this, Boddy. I've already seen more than enough to convince me. The problem is," I went on, half to myself. "I don't really have evidence to prove any of it."

"Professor Dumbledore will believe Professor Lockhart!" Boddy said, looking at me hopefully.

"I'm not sure he would," I mused, rubbing the side of my face as I tried to see a way through this mess. "If the Ministry's against you on something, you pretty much need overwhelming evidence in your favor to carry the day. We don't have anything but circumstance and conjecture."

Boddy looked at me pleadingly. "Professor Lockhart, what must we _do_?"

"I need to know the whole story," I said, beginning to pace back and forth. "I'd like to find out where the Chamber of Secrets is in this castle. It has to be here somewhere!"

"Boddy may know of a way to find it."

I spun around to face him; Boddy had stood in the chair — his head now came up almost to my chin. "Last year," he began. "Professor Dumbledore had Boddy and other house-elves move a very tall mirror into different rooms of the castle last year, around the Christmas holidays. Boddy wondered what the mirror was for, sir, so Boddy returned to the room at night, to see what would happen.

"Boddy watched, one night, as Harry Potter came into the room," Boddy went on. "Someone had been chasing him. When he looked into the mirror he saw things he wanted to see. The next night he brought his friend, the red-haired boy. The red-haired boy saw things he wanted to see as well. After they left, Boddy stood before it, and saw things he wanted as well; but Boddy is only a house-elf, and may not desire such things.

"The third night Boddy returned, but Professor Dumbledore was in the room, invisible — Boddy did not dare enter. Later, Professor Dumbledore summoned Boddy to his office and said to move the mirror to a place where it would not be found." He looked guiltily at Lockhart. "Professor Dumbledore said to put it where even Boddy would not be able to find it again."

My mouth was twisted in a wry grin. "And what did you do, Boddy?"

"Boddy asked one of his helpers to move the mirror to another place then forget where it was."

"So you don't know where it's at, now?" I asked, with a sigh.

Boddy's eyes were downcast. "No," he admitted. But he looked up suddenly, hopeful. "But it must be in the castle, Professor Lockhart! Boddy is sure that he can find it!"

I nodded, though I wasn't going to count on anything coming of it. "And what about Dobby — do you still think he'll want Harry Potter out of Hogwarts now?"

"Boddy will tell him what Professor Lockhart has said," Boddy said confidently. "He will see that Harry Potter must be here to protect the students of Hogwarts from the Heir of Slytherin! Oh, how great and merciful Harry Potter is indeed!" And with a _crack_ Boddy disappeared into thin air.

The blizzard that had started on Friday lasted nearly through the weekend, dropping so much snow on the countryside around Hogwarts that it threatened to keep the Hogwarts Express from arriving on schedule at Hogsmeade for the trip home. Many students loitered nervously in the Great Hall on Sunday, afraid they were going to have to spend more time around Harry, who now trudged around the school with the corridors virtually to himself when Ron and Hermione weren't with him.

I'd wanted to have a word with him, but lately Harry always seemed to be bustling off someplace whenever he saw me; I was beginning to think he didn't want to be near me. I was a bit offended, if the truth be told — aside from the fiasco with his arm, I'd been nothing but helpful to the boy. And even _that_ hadn't been my fault, I declared to myself. But, I took it all in stride.

Besides, I had enough worries of my own without adding Harry's to my list. I'd heard nothing from Mrs. Witherhams in the four months I'd been gone. Indeed, I hadn't been too keen on talking with her, considering that she was thick with the likes of Malfoy and other Death Eaters who were willing to sacrifice me to You-Know-Who's curse on Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers at Hogwarts.

Monday morning, I joined the throng of students who were taking the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross in London. I had decided to take the train back rather than flag down the Knight Bus; after all, the Bus was more of an emergency option (I'd learned) than standard transportation, and the hours-long trip would give me a chance to collect my thoughts and decide what to do once I was back in London.

I could only imagine what was going to happen when I got there. I remembered, vaguely, Boddy telling me I'd moved some gold at Gringotts from one vault to another, yet Mrs. Witherhams had never written to ask me what became of it. I was hardly sure myself.

The train was waiting for us at Hogsmeade Station, as usual, and the trip back to King's Cross was uneventful. When the trolley came round I treated myself to a couple of pumpkin pastries, washing down the delicious snacks with water from my wand, poured into a glass transfigured from a pastry wrapping. No students sat with me in the compartment I'd chosen, though I did have a momentary visit from Ginny Weasley. I had dozed off in the afternoon until I heard the door of the compartment open and Ginny put her head in, asking, "Are you all right, Professor?"

"Yes, quite," I said sleepily. "I'm just having a kip."

"Alright. Have a Happy Christmas, Professor," she said, smiling, and shut the compartment door.

We arrived at King's Cross in the early evening, and I passed through the barrier from Platform 9¾ into the Muggle part of the station, wondering momentarily how I would get back to my residence at number 14, Stottenfield Court. I thought about the Knight Bus once again, but decided on more mundane transport — I hailed a Muggle cab to take me home, using Muggle money I'd found in my desk to pay for the fare. I hurried up the walk to get inside; it was as cold here in London as it had been at Hogsmeade Station before boarding the train.

I hadn't brought a key, trusting Mrs. Witherhams to let me in when I arrived. I knocked on the door, calling her name, but after a minute in the cold I pulled out my wand and murmured "_Alohomora_" to unlock the door, then stepped inside quickly to be out of the chill.

But except for the wind outside, it seemed every bit as chill inside number 14 Stottenfield Court as it had outside on the street. "Mrs. Witherhams," I called, wondering if she were in the kitchen, at the back of the house. And why was it so cold _inside_? I would have thought a woman like Witherhams would prefer her living quarters nice and toasty. I watched my breath fog the air before me, then started toward the back.

But before I'd taken two steps I stopped, transfixed, by the sight that greeted me in the front room. A figure lay crumpled on the floor: Mrs. Witherhams! I sprang to her side, staring at her face: she was on her back and her countenance was twisted into a death mask of horror and loathing, a ghastly image of absolute terror.

"Oh, my lord," I moaned softly, putting my hand fearfully on her neck, trying to find a pulse. Her skin was cold and clammy; I could feel no movement there, and there was no indication of how she'd died. There was no blood, and appeared to be no damage to her body.

Only one spell killed like that, leaving no mark. The _Avada Kedavra_. Malfoy and the other Death Eaters must have killed her as some type of punishment!

There was no way around it — I would have to alert the Ministry and get help with Witherhams' body. I started to get to my feet, then stopped, staring into the fireplace. There was a fire roaring there, although I felt no warmth coming from the flames, even when I held a hand out toward it. As I watched, the flames suddenly died down, extinguishing themselves. There was a sigh, a slow exhalation of breath — but not from _me_. I looked down at Mrs. Witherhams, into her eyes, and as I did so, she _blinked_. She was alive!

But just barely. Her eyes saw nothing; I waved a hand in front of them, eliciting no response. Moving it over her mouth, I felt the tiniest bit of air moving slowly in and out. What had done this to her?

An icy dread gripped me, pervading my flesh like poison flowing through my veins; it felt as though I would never feel happy, or warm, again. _Curiouser and curiouser_, I thought perplexedly to myself, wondering what was happening. All I knew was, I had to leave this place, I had to flee, to get away!

Turning toward the door, trying to stand, I froze in horror as my vision seemed to black out. I had suddenly gone blind! But _why_? I fumbled for my wand in my pocket, nearly retching with the nausea I suddenly felt, and shouted "_Lumos_!"

Light blazed from the tip of my wand, illuminating my arm and — _something else_. Before me floated a tall, hooded figure, clothed in black tatters; a gray, skeletal hand was extending toward me. I screamed, flinging myself away from it, but managed only to land on my back a few feet away. The figure glided slowly toward me, arm still extended, and I felt myself growing faint. I realized finally what this thing was — a dementor, a guard from the wizards' prison, Azkaban!

I scrambled backwards, trying to put distance between myself and the dementor. But it could glide faster than I could crawl away, and in moments it was above me, its eyeless face hovering over mine. The black mouth opened, and I smelled cold putrescence, gagging me, as it moved closer and closer to my face. In moments it would give me the Dementor's Kiss! I raised my wand feebly, to — to —

What should I do? I couldn't think — I could only _feel_ — hopelessness and despair and pain that tore at me, leadenness in my limbs that made it nearly impossible to move. I heard a sucking, gurgling sound that made my heart feel icy; my mind was folding inward on itself, trying to keep from being drawn away. What would the Wizarding world think, I pondered weirdly, when it found Gilderoy Lockhart dead of a dementor's kiss, after all the things he'd — _I'd_? — written about?

Instinctively, I reached up with my free hand, trying to keep it away. My fingers closed on its throat, and I felt stinging pain on my palm, followed by numbing cold. My arm stopped working — it dropped onto my chest, useless.

It was upon me now — I could feel my soul slipping away, being — _eaten_? — by this — this _thing_. Don't … let …. go … John …

But _who_ was _John_?

_I was John_!

But I was _Gilderoy Lockhart_ as well! How could that be?

Whoever I was, I had to do something — my strength was nearly gone. The wand, until now forgotten in my right hand, lifted itself toward the black-robed dementor, and I croaked, "_Expecto Patronum_!"

A white light shone from the tip of the wand, bathing the creature in its brilliance, and it jerked back, away from me. Encouraged, I shouted again: "_Expecto Patronum_!!"

A beam of light struck the dementor, driving it back. There was the sound of screaming in the room — I did not know if it was me or the dementor that was screaming — perhaps both of us were. I shouted a final time, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM_!!"

A form burst from the end of my wand, leaping at the dementor, which fell back and disappeared from the room. The Patronus chased it to the front door, which had flown open of its own accord, then returned when I called out, weakly, "Come back," and slumped to the floor, completely spent.

I don't know whether I lost consciousness or not, but the next thing I remember was my Patronus standing beside, a paw on my cheek, looking into my eyes. Its presence made me feel much better; I knew no dementors would be able to harm me while it was here. I stood, shakily, and walked to the front door, looking out to see if anyone — or any_thing_ — was still about, before pusing it closed.

"That was close," I muttered. "How did that thing get in here?" I asked, turning to one of my portraits hanging near the front door — but it wasn't there. Strange.

Looking around, I saw the portrait was on the floor, leaning against the wall and facing inward. Other portraits in the hallway were on the floor as well. Why would a dementor do that?

I picked up the nearest portrait, turning it around to hang it back on the wall, and found my picture cowering along the edge of a frame. "W-watch out," he croaked in a frightened whisper. "It — it may still be here —"

"The dementor's gone," I said flatly. "Have a backbone, will you?"

"N-no!" my picture shook his golden locks, his eyes wide. "Someone else…"

At that same moment there was a motion in the corner of my eye, far down along the hallway. I spun, pointing my wand down the hallway as a small, high voice said, "_Petrificus Totalus_!"

I froze in position, my wand still pointed down the hallway. From the shadows a small, hooded figure emerged, completely covered in black robes and pointing a rather short wand at me. Whoever it was (and I had my suspicions, based upon that wand) had me dead to rights.

Well, except that my wand was still pointed in the right direction for attack. And my Patronus was still standing patiently at my side. I willed it to attack the figure, and it leaped into battle. The figure emitted a high screech, slashing at my Patronus with its wand. The Patronus (it was a raccoon, I now saw — this was the first time I'd formed a corporeal Patronus) flew around and around the head and shoulders of the figure, disorienting it.

But suddenly the wand found its mark, and my Patronus dissipated. I had no idea what spell could do that, but I was now defenseless again, unless I regained the use of my body — and fast!

The nice thing, offensively, about the Body-Bind Curse was that it was almost impossible for a victim to dispel by himself. You really were at the mercy of whoever cast it upon you. The hooded figure was turning to me again, preparing to attack with that short, stubby wand once again. I could hardly expect mercy from the person who'd frozen me, could I?

But there was one chance I saw, though it was a desperate gamble. The figure was still directly in front of my wand. Summoning all my strength, I exhaled, forcing air out of my lungs (the autonomous muscles still functioned, thankfully, or one would be dead in seconds from the Body-Bind Curse, of a stopped heart) as I fiercely thought the word: "_Imperio_!"

The figure in front of me stiffened, then waved its wand, and the curse holding me frozen dissipated. Ironically, releasing me had the opposite effect I'd intended — I fell over, onto the floor! Without the Patronus present I felt utterly spent. I passed out.

After laying there for I don't know how long, I finally awoke. I looked around, but my hooded attacker was gone. I wondered if my Imperius Curse had lost effect when I lost consciousness. Well, I hadn't done much more than command that the Body-Bind Curse be lifted. I stood, weakly, and shuffled to the divan, collapsing onto it.

My left arm could move again, but only stiffly, and my hand was still numb and useless. What's more, my memories were back — _all_ of them. I now remembered I was not just Gilderoy Lockhart, from this reality, but also John Bean, from a reality where all of this was considered a fiction, a series of stories. I had spent nearly four months in a fog, believing I _was_ Lockhart, because Lucius Malfoy had attacked me with a Memory Charm outside the Leaky Cauldron, the day I'd transferred the gold to my new vault and gave the key to Dumbledore. I sat down on the divan in my drawing room and took stock of my situation: My housekeeper was nearly dead, the victim of a Dementor's Kiss; I had nearly succumbed to the same fate, but had managed to summon a Patronus to fight of the dementor, which was now loose somewhere in London, if it wasn't on its way back to Azkaban.

I wasn't sure what the Ministry was going to think of this.


	13. Chapter 13

"Are you quite sure you're alright, Professor Lockhart?" Arthur Weasley asked me for the third time since he'd arrival at my home.

"Quite sure, Mr. Weasley," I replied, for the third time. "Let me say again I'm very grateful for you responding to this personally. I know this is not your area of responsibility —"

"No worries, Professor," Mr. Weasley said, looking around my front drawing room once again as two Healers finished preparing to move Mrs. Witherhams. Not knowing exactly what my status with the Ministry was these days, at first I'd been at a loss how to proceed; however, since I knew Ron's father worked at the Ministry, I figured he would know how to handle these types of things discretely. "Although," he went on, "the idea of a _dementor_ leaving Azkaban to attack a law-abiding wizard and his housekeeper is certainly a troubling one. Any idea why they would have attacked Mrs. Witherhams?"

"None," I shook my head. "Although I haven't been at home since September first, of course." I'd made no mention of my other attacker, the squat, hooded figure with a short wand. It wouldn't be hard to guess the person's identity. But, with no other hard evidence to conclude who it was, I wasn't going to make any unfounded accusations in front of Arthur Weasley.

"Any correspondence with her in that time?" Arthur pressed for something to make sense of the situation. "Could it have been expecting to find _you_ here, and surprised her instead?"

I shrugged and shook my head. "I don't know. I suppose that's possible. I don't know if you know, Mr. Weasley," I said, lowering my voice confidentially, so the Healers taking Mrs. Witherhams out wouldn't' overhear. "We've been having a spot of trouble out at the school this fall."

Arthur nodded grimly. "I have heard." I wondered which of the Weasley children had been keeping their father informed on the Chamber of Secrets situation. "Some kind of monster, Petrifying people, animals, even ghosts — is that right? Quite shocking, I'd say. Does Dumbledore have any idea what it is?"

"I don't know if anyone does," I said. _Except for Dumbledore, who most likely already knew_. I of course remembered it was the Basilisk that was terrorizing Hogwarts. I wondered if _that_ tied in with this attack in some way — I recalled that, when I believed I was Lockhart, I had just figured out the identity of the Monster of Slytherin.

"Ehh — Mr. Weasley," I began carefully. "One of the reasons I called upon you…" He turned to look at me. "I'm sure it wouldn't do for this to be plastered all over the Daily Prophet just before Christmas — 'Dementor From Azkaban Attacks Popular Hogwarts Teacher'," I held up my hands, framing the words as if in a headline. "I was hoping we could keep this out of the papers — possibly even keep the Minister from having to worry about it as well."

Arthur was giving me an appraising look, and I realized that such a story would be quite self-serving for a man like Lockhart, if I'd wanted to play it up that way. Perhaps I'd surprised Arthur by wanting to keep it quiet. "I quite agree with you, Professor," he said, nodding emphatically. "We should keep mum about this for now. _Especially_ from Molly," I heard him add under his breath, as he turned away.

Mrs. Witherhams was whisked away in an old ambulance that was painted an outrageously awful shade of green — it seemed to be exactly the wrong color for a vehicle meant to travel inconspicuous through the streets of London. Mr. Weasley, seeing me eyeing the vehicle, smiled and said, "Beauty, isn't she?"

"Quite an interesting vehicle," I replied vaguely.

"I helped with the design," Arthur said, beaming. "The paint has a mild Disillusionment Charm on it, to make it appear to Muggles as just another motor vehicle. To magical folk, however, it stands out quite clearly."

I nodded, looking at the ambulance again in a new light. That was quite a good idea about the charm in the paint, I thought, impressed. In the books Arthur Weasley's character always seemed to be used for humor or to provide Ministry information from a friendly source — it was nice to see that he had a brain in his head as well.

At the door Arthur shook my hand. "You'll want to put some extra protection on your home, Professor, just in case," he said. "If I have any further inquiries I'll be in touch." He nodded at me, then turned and got into the passenger side of the ambulance, and it sped off down the street.

I set up the protection spells as Arthur had suggested, then went to bed. But I couldn't sleep — as I lay there thinking about the last few months at Hogwarts I realized how disconnected from it I felt. It was as if I'd suddenly jumped four months into the future — the time I'd spent at school this fall didn't seem real to me now. I could remember what had happened, but it felt as if I'd read about it in a book, not lived it myself. Which, in a sense, was what had actually occurred to me.

When I got up the next morning, I found my left hand was still numb. Worried that it had been "cursed" somehow by being in contact with the dementor's skin, I thought it would be prudent to go over to St. Mungo's to have them look at it. But _how_ was I going to explain that I'd grabbed a dementor by the throat? I couldn't just say we'd gotten jostled together while riding on the London Underground. "Yes, Healer, someone trod on my foot and I reached out for the pole and accidentally grabbed him round the throat." No, that would not work at all.

I might be able to take the Knight Bus. But I didn't want to be seen in public, especially not if I was going to be dropped off at St. Mungo's. That would start rumors all by itself, especially with Stan being the nosy busybody he was.

Finally, I sat down and composed another letter to Arthur Weasley, explaining my dilemma and asking for his advice, then using a spell that summoned an owl from the nearest Wizarding post office, just as I'd done last night to get in touch with Arthur Weasley.

After placing the letter and the three Knuts postage in the pouch tethered to the owl's leg and sending it on its way, I fixed breakfast and sat down to eat and wait for the morning's _Daily Prophet_, to see if last night's "incident" had been kept out of the paper, as Arthur had promised. It wasn't long before I heard a flapping of wings and a soft hooting that signaled the arrival of the Wizarding newspaper. Outside my door, I found an owl sitting on the perch, drinking water from a bowl I'd placed there, waiting patiently for me to get the paper. I dropped the payment in its pouch and took the paper, murmuring "Thank you" to the owl, whereupon it stretched out its wings and took off again.

Reading the paper by laying it on the kitchen table — holding it was difficult with my numb left hand — I found nothing in it about any incident at my house the night before, thank goodness! I'd nearly read through it when there was first a _thud_, then a _thump_, at my front door. Which mean, I knew, that Arthur's owl Errol had arrived.

I'd met Errol last night after I'd sent off the first owl post to Arthur. Sometime later there had been a similar racket outside my door, and I opened it to find an old brown owl lying on my stoop with a note attached to its leg. Arthur had written that he'd be come round to my house as soon as he made arrangements to have my housekeeper brought to St. Mungo's for examination; they'd arrived shortly thereafter, as I was trying to get the decrepit old thing to sit on a perch and drink something.

Now I checked outside, and sure enough, there was Errol, lying on my stoop again, wheezing mightily. I was starting to feel sorry for the old bird; he'd had to make the flight between London and Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Burrow was, three times now. I unfolded the note on his leg and read:

_Professor Lockhart,  
I agree it's best you avoid public transportation for now, especially going to St. Mungo's — your visit there is bound to be leaked to the press in any event, so the fewer witnesses there are, the better.  
Unfortunately, I won't be able to escort you there. However, I do have someone in mind who will help you get there and back home. He's a very good student, an Auror trainee, and I have every confidence in him.  
For safety's sake, if anyone approaches you, ask the question, "I wonder how hot the weather in Istanbul is today?" The person who answers, "Probably not as cold as it is in Constantinople" is your escort. Be wary of anyone else!_

Sincerely,  
Arthur Weasley

_P.S., please destroy this note after you read it. Also, your escort knows nothing of the reasons behind the attack of your housekeeper. I think it will be best to keep it that way._

I had to laugh. Only Arthur Weasley would be this cautious! Well, Mad-Eye Moody too, I had to admit. At that moment the doorbell rang and I went to answer it, wondering if it was my "escort."

When I opened the door I found a tall, thin, rather nerdy-looking young man standing on my stoop. I was a bit taken aback; Arthur had seemed to put a lot of confidence in him. Well, perhaps nerdiness inspired trust in Arthur… Then I noticed the young man's hair, which was _pink_, and the light bulb went on in my head. Well, that metaphor probably isn't right for wizards — I should say, the wand lit up in my head.

"Hello," I said, deciding to have a bit of fun with "him." "Sorry, but I don't need any magazines or hairbrushes, thanks."

"What?" the young man blurted in a thin, reedy voice. "But I'm not selling anything."

"Ah. I see," I said, looking around as if I were expecting someone else. "Well, I'm a bit busy at the moment, then —" and I made to close the door.

"Wait a minute," the young man said, stepping forward and putting a hand out to stop the door. "Don't you have something to ask me?"

"Ask _you_?" I replied blankly. "Didn't _you_ come up on _my_ porch, not the other way round?" I was kind of enjoying this.

The young man was beginning to look annoyed. "Something about Istanbul?" he prompted. "About the weather?"

"You know, I just checked the weather in Istanbul!" I exclaimed, as if it were the wildest coincidence. "It's snowing like the dickens there right now! Colder even than it is here!" Of course I was full of it, but the expression on "his" face was priceless — and I could see the hair beginning to go even pinker.

"Fine," he said dismissively, starting to turn away. "No skin off my nose —"

"Are you sure, Nymphadora," I interrupted. "It's beginning to look a little out of joint."

"Don't call me — wait a minute," the young man was now gazing at me undisguised puzzlement. "How d'you know — did Mr. Weasley — I mean —"

I stepped back from the threshold and beckoned for her to come in. "Sorry," I said, chuckling as she walked stiffly inside, waiting for my explanation. "I knew you were Nymphadora Tonks." I pointed her into the front room, noticing that she was now a slender young woman with a heart-shaped face and dark eyes that were flashing at me as she passed. Her hair was still pink, though.

"But how?" she asked, turning and accidentally kicking the leg of a chair. "How could — ouch, bloody chair! — you know me? We've never met, have we, Professor Lockhart?"

"No — er — I —" I hadn't quite thought that far ahead. "I know you by, eh, reputation."

"Reputation?" she said, giving me a surprised look as she sat down in the chair she'd just kicked, rubbing her toe. "I've got a reputation already? I hope it's a ruddy good one!" she added, giving me a mischievous look.

"I know you like pink," I said, giving her the real reason I recognized her. "Your hair was that color. And Arthur said he was sending an Auror trainee."

"Hm, I'll have to watch that with the hair," she said thoughtfully. "You're right, it could give me away at an inopportune moment. Well," she stood, suddenly brisk. "Shall we get you over to St. Mungo's, Professor?"

I was beginning to wonder if I'd ticked her off by playing with her earlier. I suppose, from her standpoint, I was being a bit of a jerk. But my hand had been numb for several hours now, and it was concerning me more at the moment than her feelings were. "I'm ready any time," I nodded. "How are we making the trip?"

Tonks grinned at me with such sincere cheerfulness that my fears about her being upset with me were immediately dispelled. "I'm doing my good deed for the day," she said conspiratorially, pulling an old hairbrush out of her pocket. "I filled out an application for a Portkey, to take old Mrs. Meadowes over to St. Mungo's. The Ministry likes to think it's 'giving back to the Wizarding community' when Aurors do these sorts of pubic services."

"That's very nice, I suppose," I said, folding my arms. "But it seems like there's a flaw in the plan — I'm not a little old lady."

Tonks gave me a beatific smile. "I know that." She looked away from me for a moment; when she turned back, her face had changed again, to that of a genteel-looking elderly lady. "But I am."

The Portkey was set for 11 a.m. It was a few minutes before then, so Tonks prepared by transfiguring her robe to give it an older style, adding an ancient-looking hat with a flower and a faded old purse. Now she looked positively frumpy, I thought.

It was nearly eleven by now. "When we get there," she told me, holding out the hairbrush so I could touch it. "You do the talking. 'Mrs. Meadowes' has an appointment to see Healer Jones. Once we're there we have someone on the inside who can check out your hand."

I nodded, touching the hairbrush with my right hand and holding up my left one for inspection. My fingers would wiggle a bit but the hand still felt numb and useless. The hairbrush flashed blue momentarily and Tonks said, "Here we —"

"— go." We were standing on a street in front of a decrepit-looking red brick building with a sign on it that read "Purge and Dowse, Ltd." On all of the doors were signs that read Closed for Refurbishment.

I was looking all of this over with interest when Tonks nudged me in the side and whispered, "Go on, then," as if I should know what to do. I glanced at her, bemused, but she gave me a what-are-you-waiting-for look and I realized I probably _should_ know what to do. I racked my brain to recall just what that was.

There was a very ugly-looking mannequin in a green dress standing in the window. That sparked a memory: Tonks herself leaning forward to announce that they were here to see Arthur Weasley. Feeling slightly foolish, I leaned forward and said, "We're here for an appointment with Healer Jones, please."

"Nice touch," Tonks, behind me, muttered. I turned to her, still feeling foolish, when there was a motion in front of me: the store dummy had just nodded, and one of its fingers beckoned us inward. Tonks, gripping my arm like a little old lady holding on for support, stepped forward —

— _through_ the glass, feeling like we'd stepped through a cool barrier, and into a reception area filled with rows of rickety looking chairs containing a dozen or so witches and wizards in various states of strange disrepair.

I'd begun to look around, to see who was waiting and what was wrong with them, but Tonks was steering me determinedly toward a desk marked Inquiries, where a plump blonde witch watched with bored disinterest as we approached.

We stood silently in front of her for several seconds before she said in a bored tone, "May I help you?"

"Yes," I said, "Um —" I'd forgotten the name of the witch Tonks ws supposed to be. "Er — she's here to see Healer Jones," I said, pointing at Tonks.

"Appointment?" The blonde witch asked. I nodded. "Time?"

"Um," I said, trying to remember. I looked at Tonks.

"Olivia Meadowes. Eleven-fifteen," Tonks said, in an elderly woman's quavery voice.

"I'll let the Healer know you're here," the blonde said. She reached over, taking a wand from the desk and tapping a pad of paper. The top sheet folded itself into a small airplane shape and swooped away. "Have a seat," she said, pointing to the rickety chairs.

"How's your hand?" Tonks asked in a low (but her own) voice after we sat down. I tried to move my fingers but they barely wiggled.

"Still pretty numb," I muttered in reply. "I hope this doctor —"

"What? _Doctor_?" Tonks said loudly. The blonde at the desk looked at us, scowling.

"Sorry — I meant — _Healer_," I said quickly. "I — I was just thinking about doctors — how glad I was to be here instead of in a Muggle hospital, and the wrong word slipped out."

"I should think so," Tonks whispered, giving the blonde a sideways look. "Doctors are nutters that go round cutting into people instead of healing them." She looked at me warily. "Are you sure you're all right?" She pointed to her head. "Up here, I mean?"

"Course I am," I said in a nettled tone. "It just _slipped out_."

"Fine, then. I'll just — wotcher, what's this?"

A small toy airplane made of folded paper dropped into Tonks' lap. She unfolded and read it, then handed it to me. "She's ready to see us."

I got to my feet, offering Tonks my arm, and nodded genially to the blonde receptionist, who watched unblinkingly as we passed her, walking through a set of double doors into the narrow hallway beyond. I had no idea where I was headed, but Tonks seemed to know the way. She led me up a staircase then down a corridor marked "Healer offices." The corridor was empty except for an unwell-looking wizard in shabby robes walking toward us. I nodded to him as we passed, watching for the name "Jones" on one of the doors —

"Gilderoy Lockhart?" I turned. The wizard we'd just passed was staring at me with a look of recognition. I suppressed a frown — I hadn't expected to be recognized this close to my goal — but at this point I was simply helping an elderly witch see her healer; surely there was nothing suspicious about _that_.

"None other," I said cheerfully, in my Lockhart persona. "And a good morning to you!" I pointed down the corridor. "Sorry, in a bit of a rush. The dear lady here has an appointment with her Healer."

"Don't you recognize me, Gilderoy?" the wizard asked, now facing us directly. He seemed to be challenging me. I felt Tonks' arm tense; her left hand was inside her robe, probably wand in hand. "We spent too much time together, all those years ago, for you to forget me so soon."

I looked carefully at his face. He wasn't old, but his features were haggard, from either from illness or exhaustion, and his hair had a few tinges of gray in it. I had no idea who he was, even though he'd seemed to recognize me almost immediately. "I'm afraid —"

And then the haggard face, graying hair and shabby robes clicked in my head, and I changed in mid-sentence to "— I was a little preoccupied, Lupin, sorry. How have you been?"

"Getting by, Gilderoay." Lupin looked at Tonks, who was still poised to defend me if need be. "Don't worry, ma'am," he told her, politely. "Mr. Lockhart and I are old friends; we spent some time together in Europe five or six years ago, while he was writing one of his books."

Probably _Wandering with Werewolves_, I thought with a suppressed smile. That would fit with Lockhart knowing Lupin, a werewolf himself.

"Well," Lupin said, nodding deferentially toward Tonks. "I'll leave you and Mr. Lockhart to your appointment, ma'am." He gave me a significant look. "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime, Gilderoy." It seemed like nothing would please him more, except that we should be alone the next time we met.

"I shall look forward to that," I said with a smile. I had the impression that, if we'd met when I wasn't escorting a little old witch to a Healer appointment, our encounter might have been far more interesting. Lupin turned and walked away down the corridor.

"Did you know him?" Tonks said as we continued down the corridor, looking for Jones' office. "He seemed pretty angry with you."

"He might have been," I acknowledged, but didn't elaborate.

"He was kind of cute," she added, and I gave her a disbelieving look. "What?" she said. "I'm just saying."

_If you only knew, Tonks_, I thought to myself. "Ah, here we are," I said, pointing to a door with a card on it reading Hestia Jones, Healer-in-Charge, Creature-Induced Injuries.

Something familiar about that name, I pondered, as we knocked and a woman's cheerful voice bade us come in. Inside, I shook hands with a smiling, pink-cheeked witch with shoulder-length black hair. Tonks changed back to her normal appearance; her hair, however, was now violet.

"How's this look?" she asked cheerfully, of Jones.

"Very nice, dear," Hestia smiled. "That's a nice color for your hair." Tonks, beaming, gave me a "told-you-so" look.

The Healer turned to me. "So you're Gilderoy Lockhart."

"I am," I said, smiling and extending my hand. She took it, after a moment, and we shook hands briefly. She let go rather quickly. I wondered what she'd heard about Lockhart.

"Right, then," Hestia said, having me sit on a small examination table. "Let's have a look at that hand." She peered at it closely for nearly a minute, turning it several ways and bending each of the fingers and thumb in turn. "Can you move any of your fingers?"

I tried, but my fingers only jerked spasmodically. "It's like it's not completely connected anymore," I said, watching as she tapped various places on my hand with her wand.

"Interesting," the Healer said. "I've heard of a few wizards who've actually touched a dementor, but this is the most interesting after-effect I've encountered yet."

"What were some of the others?" I asked.

"Death, mostly," she replied matter-of-factly. My eyebrows shot up. "You were very lucky, Mr. Lockhart, to have your wand in hand and the apparent strength of will to summon a Patronus."  
She took a pad from her desk and scrawled a few words on it. "I think an infusion of capers in a Mandrake Solution will do the trick." She handed me the note she'd just written. "The apothecary in Diagon Alley should be able to fix that up for you straightaway, Mr. Lockhart."

We got up to leave. Tonks gave Jones a hug, while I caught the skull she knocked off the desk with her hip. With my right hand, of course.

"Good catch," Tonks said over her shoulder. She turned back to Hestia. "Nice to see you again, we'll have to have lunch together sometime!"

"I'd like that," Hestia said brightly. "I hope I can find time, though — this place is a madhouse around the holidays."

"There's always time for lunch," Tonks said with a wink, then turned back into old Mrs. Meadowes. "Even for us old ladies," she wheezed, in character.

"Speak for yourself, my dear!" Hestia laughed. "Now go on, I have an eleven-thirty to attend to, and several more before I can even _think_ about eating! Off you go, then — take care!"

Back outside on the street, Tonks returned to her normal appearance once again. "I suppose we should get you fixed up with that potion, then," she said, looking around as if trying to decide the best way to get to Diagon Alley.

"We could Apparate," I suggested.

One of her eyebrows went up. "I thought Apparating made you sick," she said, looking at me shrewdly. "That's why Arthur had me get the Portkey."

Actually, I still hadn't Apparated on my own in all the time I'd been here. I thought I knew how — the three "D's," destination, determination and deliberation — but without some actual training I was afraid to try anything, for fear of Splinching myself in some horrible way, with no other wizard around who could help me.

"I was thinking more like Side-Along," I said to Tonks. "I think I can handle that."

She shrugged. "I'm game," she said, putting out her arm for me to hold onto. "It'll be loads quicker than the tube, for sure."

I took a deep breath as I stepped with her, and several very uncomfortable moments later we were standing in front of the apothecary shop in Diagon Alley. Despite my wooziness after the travel, I was impressed — I couldn't remember anyone in any of the stories Apparating _into_ Diagon Alley from the outside. Everyone either walked in through the entrance in the Leaky Cauldron, used the Floo Network, or (presumably) could use a Portkey to get in.

The apothecary was a thin, elderly man, nearly bald except for a shock of white hair around the back of his head. He studied the note Hestia Jones had given me for several seconds before remarking, "Not much call for this preparation. What's it for?"

"I grabbed a dementor by the throat before chasing it away with a Patronus," I said, deadpan, while Tonks smiled and covered her mouth with her hand.

The old man snorted. "All right, then, no need to be so bleedin' cheeky — I was only asking." He turned away and began gathering ingredients for the concoction.

Tonks and I wandered around the shop while he made the potion. It smelled quite foul, like rotten eggs and cabbage, but there rows and rows of fascinating items in it: shelf after shelf of powders, jars of plants, and dried fruits and roots; bundles of fangs, claws, feathers, and skins hung from the ceiling. There were rows of barrels filled slimy stuff and liquids with thing floating (and sometimes swimming) in them. Near the back were glass cases filled with bones of all types, some in shapes I'd never imagined any kind of creature having.

"Well," I said, almost to myself, "At least Snape would have someplace to retire to, if he ever got sacked." That elicited a giggle from Tonks, and I chuckled as well.

"Ready, sir," the apothecary finally called, and Tonks and I walked back up to the counter. "You Gilderoy Lockhart?" he grunted as I stopped in front of him.

"Actually, I'm his little brother, Fauntleroy," I said smoothly. "Gil's a little taller than me, and his hair's blonder."

The old man shrugged and said, "Directions say to take one teaspoon three times a day for three days. If the condition persists visit your Healer. That'll be five Galleons."

I had my coin pouch ready and dropped five gold coins into his palm. "Thank you very much," I said, taking the bottle, and Tonks and I walked out into the street.

"Anywhere else you want to visit before we head back?" Tonks asked as we looked up and down the street at the various shops.

I was wishing I had the key to my vault at Gringotts; I might have gotten some more Galleons while I was thinking about it. But there should still be plenty at home where I'd hidden them, so it didn't matter. "I'd like to go see Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," I said offhandedly. "But it's not there yet, so I suppose we're done here."

Tonks was giving me a strange look. "You know, you're probably one of the weirdest Hogwarts teachers I've ever met, Professor Lockhart."

I gave her a sideways glance. "You forgot about Professor Trelawney."

"True, that. Come on, then, let's pop back to your place."

I spent the next few days convalescing at home. Curiously, my hand began working again almost immediately after I began taking the medicine, but I kept at it for the entire three days, remembering that when doctors (or Healers) prescribe something, they mean for you to take it _as directed_.

I quickly got bored doing nothing but taking medicine and sitting around in a house with no television, no internet, no radio except the Wizarding Wireless Network unit in Mrs. Witherhams' room, which was playing nothing hoary old Christmas carols almost non-stop, and then only to have Christmas _specials_ from singers such as Celestina Warbeck, or the Weird Sisters.

I went down to the basement and tried to make a project out of reading up on Apparition; it seemed like such a useful way to get around that I was going to have to figure out how to do it on my own. But my thoughts, now that I had some time to think, were turning back to wondering how I was going to get home. I still had no idea how to accomplish it, which was quite depressing. I gave up reading about Apparition — or anything, really. I just sat in the kitchen, refilling my nearly empty bottle of butterbeer again and again, and taking the potion that was helping heal my hand.

By Christmas Eve, the last day of taking the potion, it was nearly noon before I dragged myself out of bed, threw a housecoat over my pajamas, and went down to sit in the front room, brooding. It wasn't helping that I'd been here in the Harry Potter Wizarding world for six months now (seven when I considered I spent an extra month in the Room of Requirement!) and I couldn't say I was one step closer to being home now than I was when I found myself here on July 31. And, if I wasn't careful, I could well find myself accidentally Obliviating myself with Ron's broken wand, and spending the rest of my life here, stuck in St. Mungo's with incurable amnesia.

Depressed, I could only imagine what was happening back in my own reality. Was my body conscious, or walking around like a zombie? Was it even alive now? I had visions of it lying comatose in some hospital room. There was no telling what my mother, brother and sisters would be doing, or what they were thinking.

A sudden knock at the door startled me. _Who would be coming to visit me unannounced_? I didn't like any of the answers that came to mind, but none of the protection spells indicated the presence of Dark magic or someone untrustworthy. "Who is it?" I said through the door.

"Tonks," came the reply, and I grimaced — I was not nearly presentable! "Hang on a sec," I said, making myself sound hoarse. I was going to have to feign still not feeling well, to cover how I looked. Opening the door, I nodded and said "Hullo, Tonks" in a subdued voice.

Her hair was pink again, probably to tease me, and she was wearing a smile which quickly turned to concern as she saw my appearance. "Oh, how are you feeling today?" she asked quickly.

"Better," I said, stepping back to let her in. We walked into the front room. "My hand works again," I said, flexing it for her. "But I've been feeling a little under the weather the last few days. I just woke up a little while ago."

"I thought I'd come check up on you," she said as we sat down, she on the divan and me in a nearby chair. "Hestia said there could be side-effects from the potion you've been taking."

"It worked well," I said, flexing my left hand again. "But it made me very tired. I've taken my last dose, though, so I hope I'll feel well by tomorrow. Of course, I appreciate the trouble you went to helping me get it," I added quickly.

"You're welcome," she said, smiling. "Actually…" she hesitated. "There _is_ something you could do to pay me back," she said, almost cajolingly.

"What's that?" I said, interested. _Anything_ would be better than sitting around this house, bored and depressed.

"My parents are having Christmas dinner at their house," Tonks began, almost mumbling. "I'm invited, of course. I wondered if … if maybe you would like — would like to go with me."

"_Me_?" I said, stunned. I had not expected an offer like that from her at all!

"It's no big deal if you don't want to," Tonks was saying, misinterpreting my surprise as reluctance. "I just thought maybe… being all alone in this house, you know, you might want something else to do on Christmas."

"Well, I think I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity like that," I said enthusiastically. "I'd enjoy spending Christmas with your family, Tonks. But what's the favor to you?"

"Oh —" now that I'd accepted, she seemed reluctant to tell me what the favor was. "Well, of course, it will be cool for me to bring Gilderoy Lockhart to my parent's house for Christmas. My mum's read all of your books, by the way.

"And… well… it's just — my dad and mum kind of hover over me a bit — only child, I suppose they figure they've got to protect me." She shrugged, a gesture somewhere between indifference and frustration. "But I graduated from Hogwarts with five N.E.W.T.s, three of them Outstanding, and I'm in the Auror Training Program now — I think I deserve a little space of my own. Don't you think so?"

I nodded, a bit relieved. I was going as a "buffer friend" rather than as a date. Irrationally, I was a tiny bit resentful as I realized she wasn't asking me to go there for _her_. This time, I would be _her_ escort. But almost immediately I knew I couldn't think in terms of having relationships here — there were only six months left before I had a date myself, with a certain _Obliviate_ spell —

"Great," Tonks said. "Listen, I gotta scoot, I got some last-minute shopping to do. We're having dinner at 5 p.m. — I'll be by to pick you up about 4:30." And with a wave she was gone.

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of activity — once I was busy and preoccupied, with something else to think of beside myself. I'd gone out Christmas Eve and found two bottles of wine to take with me to Tonks: a bottle of Chablis for the turkey and some Merlot in case they had ham as well.

I spent hours in the bathroom getting ready: bathing, shaving, curling, tweezing — I wanted everything to be perfect for meeting Tonks' parents, even if I was only a "buffer friend."

Tonks arrived at 4:35. I had been pacing in the front room for about an hour, so I had the door open practically before she finished knocking. "There you are," I said with a smile. "And very pretty, too." She was wearing a red robe and hat; her hair was violet, and she was wearing it shoulder-length. She had on a heavy cloak against the cold.

"Thank you!" she said brightly. "Ready to push off, then?"

"Yes, let me just get the wine," I said. I'd put the bottles in a small sack. I grabbed my cloak off the cloak rack near the door and threw it on.

"Oh no, you didn't have to bring anything," Tonks said apologetically.

"No bother at all," I replied, bottles and sack now in hand. "Just doing my part for Christmas dinner."

We stepped outside my front door and a few moments later were standing outside the gate of a cottage on an unpaved road. I looked around but couldn't see any other houses nearby. I was getting more and more acclimated to Apparition, I thought; that last trip was fairly tolerable.

"My parents' humble abode," Tonks said, making a "ta-da" gesture toward the cottage. "They've got just about everything they need here – there's a garden out back."

"Very nice," I said.

"I'm back for the holidays," Tonks said, opening the gate so we could pass through. We walked slowly up the path to the front door. "I live in London now, but it's nice to visit every so often." She knocked on the door. "It's Dora!" she shouted, surprising me.

"Come on in, Dora," a man's voice replied. "I saw you arrive."

"'Dora'?" I said, looking at Tonks. I knew that's what her dad called her, but I couldn't resist teasing her about it.

"Yeah, because I don't answer to my full name. But don't go thinking _you_ can call me that either, you hear?"

"I hear," I said, putting up a hand (my left one) to mollify her. We went inside. A fair-haired man with a protruding belly walked into the room and gave her a quick hug, then turned to me, his hand outstretched.

"I'm Ted Tonks," he said as we shook hands. "And you must be Gilderoy Lockhart. I've been looking forward to meeting you since Dora said you were coming. My wife Dromeda's reading your latest book now."

It was a pleasant dinner. Andromeda Tonks had read quite a few books, not just mine, and had a wide range of interests. Looking at her, I wondered what her sister Bellatrix would be like: Andromeda's hair was a lighter brown and her eyes were pleasant and sparkling, not at all what I expected Bellatrix to look like, even though she and Andromeda were supposed to resemble one another. The Chablis went quite well with the Christmas turkey, and I enjoyed extra helpings of it along with potatoes and stuffing, homemade rolls and corn and peas and jellied cranberries. We chatted about Tonks' Auror training at the Minstry, Ted's work with the Ministry (he'd been an Auror as well; it was one reason why Tonks became one) with Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt, and some of the books Andromeda had read recently, including _Magical Me_, although I tried to keep us off that subject as much as possible. I was trying to take a vacation from being Gilderoy Lockhart for a few days.

After dinner, Ted and I sat in the cottage's front room discussing Defense Against the Dark Arts training while Andromeda and Tonks cleared away the extra food and started washing the dishes. Ted knew quite a bit about the Dark Arts, I found out; he could easily have taught the position if he'd had half a mind to do so.

"Dumbledore's tried to hint around I should consider it," Ted said, sitting back and rubbing his ample stomach. "But I don't think I could handle teaching that many students at once. I'm just a right old slob," he laughed. "Not used to being organized, or filling out Ministry reports. Since Fudge became Minister, he's been a stickler for everyone having their reports filed on time, every time."

"You'd make a good teacher," I said, meaning it. "There's a lot of things the students at Hogwarts need to know. More than men like Quirrell or even me can teach them. Dumbledore needs to make you a better offer."

He snorted. "I told Dumbledore I'd teach Defense Against the Dark Arts when he became the Minister of Magic. So far he hasn't taken me up on it."

"Maybe someone like Remus Lupin —" I began, but Ted jerked his head around at the mention of Lupin's name.

"The _werewolf_?" he said, incredulous. "I've heard he's a very competent wizard, but parents all over England would be shouting for Dumbledore's head if he let a werewolf teach in that school. I know _I_ wouldn't want him there if Dora was still in school."

"What if I told you he'll be teaching there next fall?" I asked him.

"Then I'd think you were daft," Ted retorted. He stood up. "Look, I don't have anything against the man personally, but facts are facts. Most people are scared witless by werewolves. There's no way to control the condition once you've got it —"

"What about the Wolfsbane Potion?" I interrupted.

"The _what_?" Ted said, looking skeptical and suspicious. "I never heard of such a thing."

But at that moment Andromeda, hearing our raised voices, came into the room. "I have," she said. "It was mentioned in the _Prophet_ a few months ago, a recent discovery from the Department of Mysteries. It's supposed to be very difficult to brew, however, so it's not generally available to werewolves yet."

She was looking at us with narrowed eyes. "Why don't you both sit back down, I'll get us all mugs of spiced cider."

But Tonks, who'd come into the room beside her, said, "I think we'd better get going, Mum — Gilderoy wasn't feeling too well yesterday afternoon and probably needs his rest."

I wasn't going to disagree with her. We put on our cloaks; then Ted stepped up to me, his hand outstretched. He was back to his cordial self. "Good to meet you, sir," he said, and we shook hands.

"You as well, sir," I replied. "Ma'am," I said to Andromeda, taking her hand lightly.

"We enjoyed having you here, Mr. Lockhart," she said pleasantly. With a final nod to both of them Tonks and I walked up the path to the gate and through it. I put my hand on Tonks' arm and a few moments later we were standing in the street in front of my house at number 14 Stottenfield Court.

"Sorry about that abrupt exit," she said with a wry look. "Dad _hates_ werewolves — he just won't admit he's prejudiced. He thinks he's being tolerant, just wanting them kept out of England instead of being killed or locked up in Azkaban."

"He was getting pretty worked up, I saw," I said mildly.

"Yeah, well…" she shrugged, almost helplessly. "That's my dad. Take him or leave him, I guess." We walked to my front door.

"D'you want to come in?" I asked as I opened the door. "For some spiced cider, maybe? It sounded like a good idea when your mother said it."

She looked at me, a number of emotions seeming to play across her face. "Well, not tonight," she said finally. "I need to go back and do some damage control with Dad."

"Damage control?" I said. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "It's just that… sometimes, if you disagree with him, my dad gets the idea that you don't like him. You _do_ like him, don't you, Gilderoy?"

"Yes," I said sincerely. "He's a good man. Dora," I added with a small smile, teasing her.

"I'll let you have that one," she said, wagging a finger at me; it reminded me of Lockhart's own tendency to do the same thing. "It doesn't sound bad coming from you, either."

There were several moments of silence as we stared at each other. Finally Tonks, looking as if she was trying to make up her mind about something, said, "Well, Happy Christmas to you, then, Gilderoy."

"Happy Christmas to you, too," I said warmly. Tonks suddenly stepped forward, giving me a hug (and trodding on my foot — I said "Mmmm" but tried to keep it an expression of pleasure rather than pain), then waggled her fingers at me as she slipped out the front door.

"See you soon," she said, and was gone.

I stood staring at the door for some time, trying to sort out my emotions. Of course I was too old for her — almost 20 years older, as a matter of fact. That, and the fact that in a few years she was going to fall in love with Remus Lupin (who was still much older than her, but not as old as Lockhart was).

Finally, I went up to my room, undressed, and got into bed. Perhaps sleeping would be better than brooding, after all.


	14. Chapter 14

I spent the rest of the holidays either thinking about Dora, or sleeping. Ironically, the pretense I'd used to explain my appearance on Christmas Eve had come true — I felt tired almost all the time I was awake. It felt more like I was mentally tired than physically; I'd lost interest in studying magic, in going anywhere (although we'd had something of a blizzard the day after Christmas, and the roads were difficult for everyone to get around in), even in trying to figure out how I could get back home.

Finally, the morning of the trip back to Hogwarts arrived. I forced myself to put magical protections inside and outside, around the house, then hailed the Knight Bus.

Stan was his usual gregarious self, smiling and happy to see me once again; Ernie just nodded, giving me a long look before turning back to his driving. I paid the fare, plus a tip for both Stan and Ernie, with three Galleons, then tried to sit quietly, ignoring Stan's rapt attention of my every movement.

A couple of BANGs later we were outside the gates of Hogwarts. Apparently my tip had moved me to the front of the queue. I gave a weak wave as I stepped off the bus and it disappeared with a final BANG.

Once inside my office, I discovered some notes on my desk, in the form of paper airplanes. Had this method of sending messages caught on with Professor McGonagall? I picked one up at random — it turned out to indeed be a note from the Deputy Headmistress, informing me of the first staff meeting of the term, the following morning.

The next note was a welcome back from Dumbledore to the teachers who had gone home for the holidays. It also announced a staff luncheon that coming Friday, from eleven a.m. until noon, in the Great Hall. Classes were canceled for that period and prefects would be in charge of students in their respective common rooms.

I didn't' remember this happening in the book, and it concerned me greatly. Had something changed so that events would proceed differently than before? I couldn't remember much of anything happening with Lockhart in the book after Christmas until the other teachers tell him to rescue Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets and save the day, knowing he would run away instead. I would have to wait until the day of the luncheon and see what happened.

The new term began, and I almost began to regret no longer believing I was Lockhart. When I had, I must've felt as if I had a purpose that made the days and weeks pass more quickly. Now, back in my own mind, I was too preoccupied with trying to figure out what I should do to find my way home to try and teach effectively. But I still tried; it was the least I could do, I thought.

I noticed during the first class of the week for second years that Hermione wasn't in attendance. Harry and Ron's heads were bent together all during the period. I was curious what they were saying but didn't call attention to them. After class, Harry saw me looking at him and, gathering up his books, bolted from the room before I could call his name. Ron, however, didn't escape. I said, "Mr. Weasley, a word if you please," and watched him slouch reluctantly up to my desk as the other students filed out.

"I noticed Miss Granger isn't in class today," I said softly, trying to keep the right amount of academic concern in my voice.

"She's — she's in the hospital wing," Ron said, sounding unhappy about divulging the information. I picked up a sheet off my desk I suddenly remembered, the list of students who were excused from classes or otherwise indisposed, and saw her name listed as being there. There was no reason given. But I recalled, at last, that she, Harry and Ron had taken Polyjuice Potion (Snape's suspicions before Christmas had been correct!) to sneak into the Slytherin common room to get information from Draco Malfoy; but Hermione had accidentally used a cat hair instead of one from Millicent Bulstrode, and now she was rather furry, and had a tail, those being the reasons she was now in the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey was reversing her "furry problem."

"I see," I said. I hadn't bothered to look at the sheet until now. "Well, I hope she's not too ill."

"No," Ron said. "She's just — she's getting better," he amended, catching himself.

"What was wrong with her, if I may ask?" I smiled, wondering what he would tell me.

"She — erm, she had a bad reaction to some cat hair," Ron finally said, looking uncomfortable.

"Allergic?" I asked, giving him an out.

Ron shrugged. "I guess so."

"Well, tell her I hope she gets better soon," I told him. "Now off you go, better get to your next class." Ron didn't have to be told twice; he picked up his rucksack of books and ran out of the classroom.

Friday finally arrived, and the luncheon loomed. I dismissed the fifth years halfway through their double class, then walked down to the Entrance Hall, heading to the Great Hall where the event was to take place, when I was distracted by the sight of several students crowded around the notice board. As I walked over they saw me and fell back, possibly to let me read the board unhindered, but more probably, because they should have been in their common rooms and didn't want to lose House points for being out of bounds. I pretended to be more interested in the board, to give them a chance to escape — then a particular notice caught my eye, written in McGonagall's hand:

* * *

_APPARITION LESSONS_

_Students who are seventeen years of age on or before the 31st of August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course in Apparition, given by a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign the sheet below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons._

* * *

I remembered seeing a similar notice, in the sixth book, that Harry read when they got back from the Christmas holidays. I wondered if I could contrive to attend those lessons; it would be a way for me to get some actual training in Apparition. I thought about adding my name to the sign-up sheet, but decided that would probably look a little silly — a teacher at Hogwarts, taking Apparition lessons!

"Coming, Professor Lockhart?" I looked around; Snape was walking past, having come out of the door beside the main staircase that led to the dungeons.

"Yes, quite," I said, following him into the Great Hall and up to the Head Table, our footsteps echoing weirdly in the nearly deserted room. It was strange to see it so empty; usually a few dozen or more students, at least, were in here almost all the time at the various tables.

There were place cards set out for us, arranged to alternate male and female teachers. I had been placed third from the end on the left side, between Madams Hooch and Burbage, who were already both seated. I nodded to both ladies as I took my chair.

Hooch nodded curtly to me. "I hope you are doing well today," I said to her. We had never spoken before, though she had been at most of the morning staff meetings during the fall term.

"Fine, fine," she said, sounding impatient. "I wonder what all this is about, though."

"I do too," I agreed. "I was surprised when I read the note announcing it."

"Oh, so you were gone during the holidays, Professor?" Hooch asked.

"Yes, I had a nice Christmas vac — er, holiday," I said. "And you?"

"I was here," Hooch shrugged. "Everyone I know is here anyway."

I nodded, then turned to look at Madam Burbage on my left. She rarely came down to either breakfast or the staff meetings; this was probably the first time I could put a face to the name. Her hair was a medium brown, short and curly, and she had the look of a frightened doe as she looked around the room. I wondered what she was afraid of, since she certainly seemed afraid.

"How are you, my dear?" I asked her, making her jump.

"F-fine," she said, hand on her chest, as if I'd nearly given her a heart attack.

"Is everything alright?" I asked solicitously. She really did seem overly anxious; she kept staring down at the table in front of her.

"Yes, it's fine," she said again, sounding very unconvincing. "It's just — the room is so _empty_."

"It is," I agreed, hearing the faint echo of my voice. Beside me, Charity closed her eyes, shaking her head, then looked down at the table again. There was a nudge on my arm from Madam Hooch.

"She has a bit of agoraphobia," Hooch whispered. "Open spaces make her uncomfortable." I nodded, understanding. As big as the Great Hall was, and with the ceiling looking like the sky, it probably seemed to Burbage she was outside.

Dumbledore, in the Great Chair at the middle of the table, stood and held up his hands for silence. "Welcome back to all the teachers who were gone over the holidays. Although, I think," he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "Professor Lockhart was the only teacher who was actually gone this year." Most of the faces at the table turned to look at me, and I smiled, though it felt rather forced.

"It has been some time since we all gathered together," Dumbledore continued. "To partake of the fine meals prepared in our kitchens by our illustrious staff of house-elves, something I fear we take far too often for granted.

"To that end, then, I would like to welcome you to the first annual Hogwarts House-Elf Awards, honoring our tiny but great-hearted friends who have worked so selflessly for us these many years." Dumbledore took out his wand and made a grand, sweeping gesture toward the Hall.

The Great Hall exploded into motion: the four House tables slid toward the nearest wall — the two middle tables flipped into the air, landing on the Gryffindor table on one side and the Slytherin table on the other. At the same time, the chairs along either side of the tables were flipping into the air, landing atop the inverted tables along either side of the Hall. In a few moments, the floor had been cleared.

Two more flicks of the Headmaster's wand and hundreds of smaller chairs and round tables, looking like children's tea furniture, began filling the space just vacated by the House tables. As I watched, in those chairs were appearing house-elves by the dozens, the hundreds — all wide-eyed and goggling at the High Table, turning to each other, pointing and whispering among themselves. They all seemed tremendously excited by this.

I laughed in delight. Surely this was something _no one_ could have imagined taking place at Hogwarts! Beside me, however, Madam Hooch was sighing. "That man…" she said under her breath, apparently referring to Dumbledore.

"I think it's brilliant," I said, from the corner of my mouth. "We hardly ever even _see_ the house-elves who do so much for us around the school." She looked at me, deadpan, and I added, "Well, it's not like all the cooking and cleaning just gets done by —"

"— by _magic_?" She finished, a trace of sarcasm in her voice. Then we both turned to watch as Dumbledore spoke again.

"Will everyone find their seats? We only have an hour for the presentations." There was a mad scramble as dozens of house-elves settled into their chairs and silence immediately descended upon the Great Hall.

"Very good!" Dumbledore beamed. "Now, in keeping with today's topic, we will begin by awarding ourselves – pudding." On cue, the High Table and all small tables throughout the hall were suddenly brimming with puddings, pastries, cobblers, tarts, trifles, cakes, pies and candies of all types. I was astounded at the sheer number of different types of desserts there were to be had; it was difficult to find room on my plate to sample even a fraction of them.

A short time later, I pushed away my plate, feeling fit to burst, and looked around the High Table to see that most of the teaching staff had done the same. Next to me, Madam Hooch had apparently had no trouble deciding to eat her share of the puddings and other sweets. Dumbledore stood, licking bits of lemon tart off his fingertips, and touched the tip of his wand to his throat to amplify his voice.

"Splendid puddings, simply splendid — my compliments to the chefs," he said, and applauded — most of the High Table joined him in showing their appreciation, myself included. I wondered what Hermione would make of this – indeed, I wondered, did _any_ of the students know about this? Given the vigor with which she'd pursued the promotion of S.P.E.W., Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, I'd guess she had no idea.

Dumbledore then went through the various groups of house-elves, having them stand and be recognized by their peers and the staff: the cooks, the cleaners, the sweepers, the scrubbers, the dusters, the washers, the waxers, the polishers, and a dozen other things the elves did around the castle, unnoticed, under our very noses.

As he called out each group and they stood, bowing and waving excitedly to their peers, some baubles or trinkets appeared in front of them on the tables where they stood: bits of costume jewelry, tiny cloth dolls or wooden toys; small items that, Dumbledore explained, were given by Wizarding children who'd been given other toys and wanted someone else to have them, rather than put them in the dustbin. At first I thought this rather presumptuous, but, seeing the looks of rapture on the faces of the house-elves who were receiving them, I had to admit they certainly liked the idea that wizards had given them gifts.

Near the end of the hour, Dumbledore presented three special awards, one each to the three top house-elves at Hogwarts: the head cook, a rotund little fellow named Honty; the senior housemaid, a thin, nervous she-elf named Manty; and finally, the castle's majordomo who, it turned out, was Boddy. All received plaques with their names on them, which Dumbledore said would be displayed in his office for the next year. Each elf accepted his or her plaque with profuse thanks and bows to Dumbledore and the staff. I would have felt embarrassed for them, except they (and the rest of the house-elves) seemed to immensely enjoy the proceedings. Boddy caught my eye as he was holding aloft his plaque, and I smiled and applauded in acknowledgement of his achievement.

"To all of you who have graced our halls with your presence, your toil, and your unflagging loyalty," Dumbledore concluded the ceremony, his arms spread wide. "We offer you our heartfelt thanks, and our continued best wishes. Well done!" The Great Hall again filled with noise, sounding like a riot of chipmunks drunk on Cheering Potion.

"Alright," Dumbledore said, after the cheering had died down, clapping his hands for emphasis. "It's nearly noon, and the students will undoubtedly be famished after an entire hour of driving their prefects to distraction. Let's hop to it!" The room again galvanized into motion and the sound of disappearing house-elves: the _crack_-_crack_-_crack_ of their exit was like a string of tiny fireworks. Within a few seconds the Hall was empty except for the High Table.

Many of the teachers began filing from the Great Hall as well — I expect most of us were too full of pudding to eat lunch now; Flitwick and Snape stayed, to help Dumbledore remove the tiny tables and chairs, and restore the House tables to their rightful places. I followed McGonagall out of the Hall, hoping to have a chance to talk to her privately.

"Professor McGonagall" I caught up with her as she started up the staircase in the Entrance Hall. "May I have a word?"

She stared at me a long moment, her square eyeglasses flashing in the torchlight surrounding us, and for a moment I wondered what I had done wrong: her expression was most severe. She finally nodded curtly and said, "Follow me, Professor Lockhart," then turned to ascend the stairs. I wondered if I had offended her somehow. I breathed into my hand, then inhaled: my breath smell like blueberry tart. I wondered for a moment if McGonagall didn't like blueberries.

I followed her to her office, where she sat down behind her desk. "What can I do for you, Professor Lockhart?" she asked briskly.

"I read on the notice board that Apparition lessons are being given this spring by the Ministry of Magic," I began.

"As they are _every_ spring," McGonagall said, looking up at me. "Professor, do you have something to ask me, or do you just plan on following me around all day, smiling vacuously?"

Now that I was going to say it out loud, I realized it was going to sound foolish. "Well, I wonder if — that is, if it would be alright for me to, um, to — to…"

"Spit it out, man!" McGonagall barked.

"I want to take Apparition lessons," I said in a rush.

"Apparition lessons?" she repeated blankly. "Why in the name of Merlin's beard would you want to do that?"

"Well, it's been a while since I Apparated on my own," I began. "I thought it would be good to take a little refresher."

"A while since you Apparated?" McGonagall said, looking at me archly. "Are you _quite_ _sure_ about that, Professor Lockhart?"

"I've done some Side-Along recently," I admitted. "But some of my memories of that particular skill seem to be eluding me."

"I see," she said. After a few moments, she reached into a drawer of her desk, bringing out a clipping of a newspaper article, and handed it to me. "Take a look at this, if you please."

I took it, frowning as I read the headline:

**Inquiry at the Ministry of Magic**

"If you read that," McGonagall went on, her voice growing cold. "You'll find that Mr. Arthur Weasley was fined fifty Galleons on Christmas Eve for bewitching a Muggle vehicle."

I nodded mutely. I remembered the article from the second book: Draco Malfoy had shown it to Ron and Harry when they were Polyjuiced to look like Crabbe and Goyle; his father Lucius had sent it to him at the school, and he'd gotten a good laugh from it.

"The article doesn't say," McGonagall went on, inexorably. "But there were some rumors flying about, the week after Christmas, that _you_ had visited several pubs the week before, boasting that you had brought one Olivia Meadowes to St. Mungo's using a Ministry Portkey, as some kind of 'community service' for the Ministry.

"Now, as it turns out, some people at St. Mungo's remember you being there. We confirmed that you were seen coming from Healer Hestia Jones' office with an elderly witch matching Olivia Meadowes' description.

"That Portkey, authorized by Arthur Weasley, was issued to a Miss Nymphadora Tonks, an Auror trainee, to bring Olivia Meadowes to St. Mungo's for an examination.

"Since I know Olivia, I wrote her and asked why she had gone to St. Mungo's. Do you know what she told me?" McGonagall raised her eyebrows at me. I shook my head mutely.

"It turns out she'd _never been near the place_. Not a thing wrong with her. Now I wonder why you would be gadding about London boasting of such a thing, Professor Lockhart — _especially_ since you seemed to have no problem Apparating _then_?"

I was speechless. And dumbfounded — I had no memory of doing any such thing. "Professor, I — I don't know what to say… I don't remember doing anything like that —"

"You can save your breath, Professor, I'm not interested in excuses," McGonagall snapped. "Cornelius Fudge was not happy about what he considered a misuse of Ministry resources. He reopened the case of Arthur's car, which had been suspended, and fined him the fifty Galleons as a putative measure — which put a severe crimp in the Weasley family's holiday festivities.

"If a student of mine had done what _you've_ done — out late, drinking like a common sot, lying and spreading false rumors about a respected member of the Wizarding community — Olivia is Dorcas Meadowes' mother, in case you hadn't realized it! — I'd feel well within my rights expelling him from Hogwarts.

"However, I cannot do that with you," she continued, "much as I might consider it deserved. As for attending the Apparition class —" she glared at me balefully "— if you feel you must attend for a 'refresher,' as you call it, you may do so without charge. I will alert the instructor that you will be attending as a _student_, not as a teacher, and that he may treat you as such. Classes will begin the first Saturday in February, at ten a.m."

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she said in a tone of dismissal. "I have some work to do before classes resume this afternoon." She began arranging piles of papers on her desk, ignoring me.

There was nothing I could say to her, so I left. Beyond feeling awful that I'd cost Arthur fifty Galleons, I had no idea how I could have been seen at those pubs when I was at home sleeping. Could someone have been Polyjuiced to look like me and done those things? Could Tonks have had something to do with it? As a Metamorphmagus, she had the capability of looking like me, but as an Auror in training, and in Arthur Weasley's confidence, I couldn't believe such a thing could be true.

There was another surprise waiting for me when I returned to my office. A small white envelope was sitting in the middle of my desk with the name "Gilderoy Lockhart" written on it in neat script. Opening it, I found a note:

_Professor Lockhart,_

_Thank you very much for the get-well card! It was very nice of you to send one to me. I hope I will be out of the hospital wing and back in your classes soon._

_Hermione Granger_

I stared at the note a long time, not understanding. What get-well card did she mean? I had just learned from Ron a few days before that she was _in_ the hospital wing, and I'd been too distracted with my problems and with lesson planning to send her a get-well card, as nice as the idea was.

It was another mystery I was going to have to solve, and I was beginning to feel like things were backing up on me: _who_ was helping Lucius Malfoy inside Hogwarts to sabotage the school. _How_ was I going to get home before "Lockhart's" memories were Obliviated? And now, _who or what_ was causing people to think I was doing things I wasn't?

It was enough to make me think again about running to Dumbledore. But once again, I also had to wonder whether his solution would work in my favor or not. After all, in a way, even though "I" (myself, not Gilderoy Lockhart) was from an entirely different universe, I was still _just a Muggle_. While I believed that Dumbledore was a friend to Muggles as well as wizards (the Death Eaters certainly believed that!) it would be impossible to know ahead of time whether he'd favor my mind or Gilderoy Lockhart's body more, when it came down to it.

What convinced me, more than anything, to keep my mouth shut for now and try to figure out things for myself was what happened that Friday night at dinner. I came into the Great Hall trying to be cheerful and smiling, my usual demeanor as Gilderoy Lockhart, and found myself feeling almost like a pariah. I sat down between Flitwick and Hagrid, nodding to each of them with a airy "Good evening, gentlemen." Flitwick nodded but said nothing, and a few moments later tossed his napkin on his plate, slipped down from his chair, and was gone without a word.

I turned to Hagrid, who was finishing off the last of a plateful of roasted chicken, and said, "Good evening, Hagrid! How's it going?"

"Fine," Hagrid said shortly, not looking at me. He tossed a last leg bone onto his plate and drew his arm across his face. "Well, tha's that," he said, rising to his feet, so the only bit of him I could see without staring upward was his knees. "Gotta be goin', Professor." And he strode off as well.

That left me alone on my side of the table. On the other side, Professors Vector and Sinistra were huddled together, whispering. I imagined that I was the subject of their discussion. In a sense I knew that I'd brought some of this on myself — I'd wanted Lockhart to keep apart from the other teachers, partly because that was how he seemed to act in the second book. He was something of a snob, obviously a braggart, and the less people wanted to be around him, I'd thought, the more easily he (that is, I) could do what I needed to do to figure out how to get home.

But I hadn't really thought about the other teachers _hating_ me, especially for something I didn't think I'd done!

I spent the next few weeks in a funk. I'd given up re-enacting scenes from my books; I simply assigned spellwork from the _Standard Book of Spells_ series for each year, plus essays on whatever each year happened to be studying. I hardly even paid attention to Harry during this time, though he seemed to be engrossed in his books whenever I looked his way during our Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.

Hermione finally rejoined Harry and Ron in class at the beginning of February. In the staff meetings, Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey were giving encouraging reports about the Mandrakes that were being grown to brew the potion that would cure Colin Creevy, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Nearly Headless Nick (not to mention Mrs. Norris). The mood of everyone in the castle was slowly improving, as no one else had been attacked for over a month, and even the staff seemed to be treating me more tolerably than they had since the Weasley situation. I was even beginning to looking forward to the end of the week, when Apparition lessons began.

I arrived in the Great Hall at little before ten a.m. Saturday morning, wanting to have a word with the instructor before the first class began. The House tables were no longer in their accustomed places, but unlike the awards ceremony they seemed to be completely gone from the Hall, making it appear even more empty than before.

The Apparition teacher was a small man, not much taller than Flitwick, and he seemed almost as pale as a ghost, as if he were on the verge of becoming transparent himself. I remembered the description of the Apparition teacher from the sixth book — this was evidently the same instructor.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," I introduced myself, adding the various honorifics Lockhart had so liked to put after his name while shaking his hand. "I thought I might have a word before you begin class."

"I remember you, Gilderoy," the instructor, who'd introduced himself as Wilkie Twycross, said mildly after we'd shaken hands. "It's been a long time since our days here at Hogwarts, hasn't it?"

"Yes it has," I agreed, searching for any memories of him I might have gotten from Boddy memory-gathering mission last year. I came up empty; I'd have to play this by ear and hope I didn't make a misstep.

"Professor McGonagall has said you'll be attending these classes as a student," Twycross said. "All I can say is, I'm glad you've finally come to your senses."

I wondered if I'd misunderstood. "Er — what?"

"Oh, I realize you never wanted to learn Apparition," Twycross went on, lowering his voice as other students began filing into the Great Hall. "But it really is one of the most interesting aspects of Wizarding life. I can hardly imagine how we did without it before the development of the modern wand, which allows us to focus our magic well enough to travel in such a fashion.

"I think you'll be really thankful you finally decided to give it go," Twycross finished with a smile. He gave me a reassuring pat on the arm and whispered. "Why don't you stand near the back so it's not obvious if you have any difficulty Apparating — I'll come round at times to see how you're doing." He turned and walked over to where the four Head of Houses were marshalling their charges into place across the floor of the Great Hall. The heads called for quiet, then Twycross began speaking.

"Good morning. My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition Tests in the next few months, by which time you may be ready to take your tests.

"Normally, as you may know," he continued. "It is impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The headmaster has lifted this enchantment, within in the Great Hall for one hour only, so that you may be able to practice. I might emphasize that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and you would be unwise to try to do so.

"Now, will you all please arrange yourselves so you each have a five-foot space in front of you." The crowd of students immediately began jostling around, separating and moving into position, arguing over floor space or who should stand where. I was moving toward the back, as Twycross had suggested, while the four House heads broke up arguments and ordered students into rows and columns.

If the truth be told, I think I was the most excited I'd been in months. If this worked, I would be able to move about a lot more freely than I had before! I watched, grinning with anticipation as the McGonagall, looking about the room, saw that every student now had enough room for the lesson to begin. She nodded to Twycross.

"Very good," the Apparition instructor said. "Now then, let's begin…" He waved his wand and on the floor in front of each of the students (and myself) appeared an old-fashioned looking wooden hoop. I beamed at it, licking my lips.

"When Apparating," Twycross said in a lecturing manner, "the important things to remember are the three D's. Destination! Determination! Deliberation!"

"Step one is to firmly fix your mind upon your _destination_," he pointed at the hoop before him. "In this case, the interior of your hoop. Please concentrate upon that destination now."

Every head in the room bowed a bit as each student fixed his or her attention upon the hoop in front of them. I did so as well, imagining myself occupying that spot.

"Step two," Twycross went on. "Focus your _determination_ to occupy the spot you're visualizing! Let your desire to enter that spot flood from your mind to every particle of your body!" I smiled, as I had already been doing that, as if I'd anticipated what he was going to say.

"Step three! Now, _only_ when give the command, mind you! Turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with _deliberation_! On my mark, now — one…"

Having done this a few times now, first with Dumbledore last year and just recently with Tonks, I understood what he meant by "turn on the spot," although when I'd read the part about the Apparition lesson in the sixth book, I thought it was rather vague.

"— two —"

Now I could see almost what would happen. It would be simple. I felt almost relaxed, except I was a bit apprehensive about Splinching.

"— THREE!"

"I turned on my heel, felt a brief compression along with a moment of blackness, and looked down to find myself in the middle of the hoop. It had seemed almost effortless.

In front of me, however, I could see I had been the exception rather than the rule. Some students had fallen over; one or two had simply jumped into the hoop rather than Apparating into it, the objective of the lesson. There was a lot of laughing and a few curses, which the Heads admonished. At the front of the class, Twycross seemed not to be too surprised by the near total failure; I don't think he noticed my success, although I was flushed and pleased with myself.

"Never mind, never mind," Twycross was saying. Back to your original positions, please, and we'll have another try…"

I remembered during the scene in the sixth book's Apparition lesson, one of the characters (I think it was Susan Bones) Splinched herself. Nothing as exciting as that happened during our first Apparition lesson. There was a lot of laughing and teasing going on, and a few of the students managed to Apparate into their hoops, but by the end of the hour Twycross was saying, "Don't worry, it does take a bit of practice.

"That concludes our first lesson." Twycross waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops. "We will resume next Saturday at the same time." He retrieved his cloak from a nearby stand that I didn't remember being there when I walked in, fastened it about himself, then waved his wand perfunctorily, Vanishing the stand as well.

"Until then," Twycross said, then walked from the Hall with Professor McGonagall accompanying him. I hurried back to my quarters, grabbed my own cloak, then walked out past the Hogwarts gates and onto the pathway that led around the school grounds to Hogsmeade station. I began practicing Apparition — first, I merely went in line-of-sight, fixing my destination on a spot ahead of me, until I'd Apparated, step by step, to the train station itself.

Then I began stretching the distance. The chilliness of the day, as well as the discomfort of the mode of travel itself, was being replaced by a growing excitement—I could actually _Apparate_! I felt I'd accomplished a significant advance when, standing near the Hogwarts' gates, I was able to Apparate all the way to Hogsmeade station in one go. For the rest of the day I walked around feeling buoyant as air — I could _APPARATE_!

I practiced again on Sunday, Apparating around Hogsmeade, in fits and starts at first, to familiarize myself with and fix the locations in my mind. Then, I began jumping from place to place more or less at random, choosing destinations I could not see from where I Apparated from. Finally, I was able to Apparate from a spot in Hogsmeade farthest from Hogwarts to the front gates themselves.

Pleased with my progress, I walked back into Hogwarts to find Ginny Weasley walking toward the gates, looking anxious and worried.

"Miss Weasley," I said solicitously. "How are you doing this fine day?" The air was crisp, but the sun was out and giving a bit of warmth.

"Fine, Professor," she said, sounding distracted. "I'm just out having a walk."

"I was as well," I said. I didn't think I'd bother mentioning my Apparition practice. There was a reason why I was being so solicitous of her — I was trying to remember what it was. It seemed like we'd had a conversation recently, something had been bothering her, she was trying to work something out. I wondered if I could draw it out of her — "Have you been feeling better lately?"

"Yes," she nodded, almost smiling. "I took your advice — I got rid of what was bothering me."

"Good!" I said, wondering if she told me what it was that was bothering her. I couldn't think of anything from the story that she and Lockhart would have talked about. "I'm glad to see things are better for you!"

She nodded, almost shrugging, then said, "That was a very nice get-well card you sent Hermione Granger. She really liked it."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said, though my smile was now a bit forced. She was the second Weasley to tell me I'd sent Hermione a card, something I was sure I hadn't done. I knew that was in the second book, though I'd forgotten about it. Had circumstances somehow contrived to fix the timeline in spite of my forgetfulness?

"I wonder how many cards _I'll_ get this weekend," she said, suddenly, and I looked at her, confused. _Was Ginny expecting Lockhart to send her a card_?

My confusion must've been obvious, because she added, "For Valentine's Day."

"Oh, of course," I laughed self-consciously. "Well, I'm sure you'll get a lot from the boys, Miss Weasley."

"There's _one_ I'd really like to get," she said, sounding wistful. I was beginning to feel a little strange about her saying that to me when I realized — _duh_! — that she was obviously referring to Harry.

"Well, I hope you get it, then," I said, remembering of course that no such card was forthcoming from Harry to her this year, or for quite some time.

She may have been hopeful but she wasn't deluded about it. "We'll see," she said, with a shrug, as if it didn't matter one way or another.

Wishing her a pleasant walk, I returned to the castle, still pleased with my newfound prowess at Apparition.

The week before Valentine's Day seemed to pass in a flash. I attributed it to my spirits being lifted by my vastly improved skill at Apparition, along with the general good mood of the students and staff as we ran pell-mell toward spring. Friday afternoon, I was grateful that my classes were flying by — it had given me a chance to begin concentrating on what I could do about getting myself home before June. As I remembered the storyline of _Chamber of Secrets_, Lockhart does not do much in the book between Valentine's Day and around the first of June, when Harry and Ron ditch Lockhart, who is leading students between classes, and figure out that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets might be in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

That was going to be my "drop dead" date, almost literally, since McGonagall tells the other teachers that Ginny Weasley was taken by the Heir of Slytherin and that her skeleton would be in the Chamber of Secrets forever, and she and the other teachers tell Lockhart he must go and save her, since he has bragged he could do so. By that time everyone is so thoroughly disgusted with Lockhart that no one is surprised when he tries to run except for Harry and Ron, after they tell him where they think the entrance to the Chamber lies.

Valentine's Day! I had forgotten what a fiasco Lockhart makes of that day in the book. Lockhart has the Great Hall decorated in lurid pink flowers on every wall, with heart-shaped confetti falling from the pale blue ceiling, and a dozen surly dwarves wearing wings and carrying harps delivering valentines to the students.

It sounded absolutely disgusting, and I wondered how I was going to avoid looking like a fool for doing it. How could even _Lockhart himself_ have thought such a display of puerile soppiness would boost his image in any way? If need be, I thought, I could simply stay in bed all day on Valentine's Day, declaring myself sick and unable to get about that day. I wished for one of Fred and George's Skiving Snackbox sweets from the sixth book — that would have made me sick enough to stay in bed! I turned in that night, hoping I would come up with something by the next morning in order to keep Saturday from becoming a waking nightmare.

I woke up in the morning feeling cranky and lethargic, and I took my time getting ready to go down to the Great Hall. Perhaps the longer I waited to show myself, the less likely I would be to get into trouble. Valentine's Day still loomed ahead of me, however, and I had no idea how I was going to get through it unscathed.

On the walk down to breakfast, I nodded to the few students I saw in the hall. They stared back at me, but I ignored the stares — I hadn't taken much time to make Lockhart presentable, but I wasn't overly concerned these days with maintaining the façade of Lockhart's vanity.

In the Great Hall, however, I realized that something was really, _really_ wrong. The normal murmur of conversation ceased immediately as I entered, then started again at a much lower volume. Students were glancing around furtively at me as I strode up to the High Table. One would think I had another face staring at them from the back of my head! I smiled grimly at that thought.

There were a few teachers sitting at the High Table: Snape, McGonagall, Sprout and Flitwick, the four House heads, along with Dumbledore, who was picking at a poached egg. Only Dumbledore smiled at me as I nodded to him, saying "Good morning, Gilderoy, it's nice to see _you_ again. Did you have a pleasant sleep?"

"Good morning, Headmaster," I said, glancing back at the students, who were now plainly whispering about me. "Everyone must be anticipating an interesting Valentine's Day — I see a lot of students are already talking about what's going to happen today."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed, and he looked at me with much more interest than I felt comfortable with. "I'm afraid you've gotten your dates mixed up this morning, Gilderoy — Valentine's Day was yesterday, not today."

"What?" I said, stupidly. I looked at their faces — perhaps they were having a joke at my expense. But no — Snape's expression, now that I saw it close-up, was livid, and both McGonagall's and Flitwick's mouths were set in thin, unpleasant lines evocative of their anger. Sprout's face was a mask of nonemotion covering her hatred of me — of _Lockhart_, I reminded myself. "How — how could I have slept through an entire day?"

"You didn't," Snape said flatly.

"No, you were down here bright and early yesterday," McGonagall continued, giving me a look of absolute disgust. "Decorating the Great Hall with — with —" she couldn't go on.

"It was quite an interesting set of decorations," Dumbledore went on, taking over for the Transfiguration teacher. "I daresay I'd never seen quite so bold a shade of pink in my life."

"And those dwarves," Flitwick muttered, "were positively _rude_."

"They were bold as well," Dumbledore noted. "Although not quite so pink as the decorations."

"You also had some interesting suggestions for a few of us," Snape put in, and a few of the others winced, apparently at the mere memory of them. "You suggested Professor Flitwick knew more Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard you'd ever met." Flitwick blushed and looked down at the table.

"And I —" Snape's voice dropped in volume but increased in menace, "I, you suggested, should show the students how to brew a Love Potion."

"Totally, completely, unacceptable behavior," McGonagall said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I must agree, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said, his tone firm, although I caught a hint of reluctance in it. "I'm afraid I must ask you —" every teacher at the table turned toward me, and I tensed in anticipation of being sacked. "— to go and see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing," the Headmaster concluded.

Everyone's head whipped back around to Dumbledore. Apparently that was not what they expected him to say. It certainly hadn't been what _I'd_ expected.

"But — but — you said you were going to let him go!" McGonagall protested hoarsely, still trying to keep her voice from being heard by the students.

"I know, Minerva," Dumbledore said, looking at her calmly. "But I've reconsidered. After all, we've given students like Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley second chances —" there was a snort of displeasure from Snape — "I don't see a problem with doing it for teachers as well. After all, while yesterday was, shall we say, unpleasant for some teachers and students, no one was Petrified, you must admit.

"Mortified, perhaps," Dumbledore added, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and McGonagall sighed deeply.

"Very well, Albus," she said grudgingly. "We'll have Poppy check him out to see if anything's wrong."

"And give him another chance," Dumbledore reminded her.

McGonagall nodded, staring at me with deep loathing. "Aye," she said. None of the other teachers looked very happy with this arrangement, either. I looked at Dumbledore.

"Go ahead, Gilderoy," he said, gesturing toward the double doors into the Entrance Hall. "Let Madam Pomfrey have a look at you. We will meet —" he pulled a watch from his robes and looked at it momentarily "— in an hour in the staff room, to discuss her findings."

Dazed, I turned and walked slowly from the room, feeling the eyes of everyone in the Great Hall on my back. I made my way up to the hospital wing and into Madam Pomfrey's office.

"Ah, there you are!" she said as I walked in. Apparently she'd been expecting me. "Have a seat." She pointed to a small examination table in her office, similar to the one in Hestia Jones' office at St. Mungo's.

"So," she said, giving me an appraising look. "What's the problem?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said, smiling.

"Why don't we have a go at it, anyway?" she retorted dryly.

"Alright. Well, I've had some indications in the last few weeks that I'm blacking out for periods of time, or not remembering doing things people say I've done."

"Examples?"

"Well, one student says I sent her a get-well card — it was Hermione Granger," I added. "She was here, in the hospital wing."

"I remember," Madam Pomfrey said, nodding. "I was here when you brought it in to give to her; you stayed and talked for several minutes." She frowned at me. "I thought it was rather inappropriate, the amount of attention you lavished on her, by the way."

"But I don't remember _any_ of that!" I said, desperately. "That's my point! I wouldn't have done that!"

"What else?" Pomfrey's face and attitude had grown stony.

"Yesterday is a complete blank," I continued. "I woke up this morning thinking it was Valentine's Day — now I'm told it's the day after. This entire week, in fact — it's positively flown by, now that I think of it."

"Meaning —?" Pomfrey prodded.

"Meaning, I have _no idea_," I replied at once. "I barely remember any of it. It's like — like — I spent the entire week dreaming." It was the closest analogy I could come up with.

Pomfrey was silent for several moments, pondering something to herself. Then she took out her wand and passed it over me several times, muttering words under her breath. Nothing happened, and she stepped back, studying me.

"Well," she said at last. "Either you're lying —" I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me. "— _or_, there's something seriously wrong with you, something I've never seen before.

"I think I should discuss this with Dumbledore before saying anything further," she said, motioning for me to get off the table and follow her into the hospital wing proper. "Meanwhile, I want you to lie down here —" she was leading me toward a bed near her office.

"Shouldn't I go to the meeting, too?" I protested. "I want to know what's happening to me!"

"I'll come get you before we discuss it with the other teachers," she said, soothingly, and I decided to trust her. Pomfrey was always a fair-minded woman, to my mind, in the stories. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Here," she'd pulled a bottle and tablespoon from a pocket, poured a spoonful of liquid and was guiding it toward my mouth. I swallowed the stuff, which left a bittersweet taste on my tongue. "This will help you relax and rest for a bit. Just have a little lie-down until I come back for you." I lay down on the bed and she nodded reassuringly and left the hospital wing.

I lay silent for a time, closing my eyes, trying not to think. _Where_ had yesterday gone? _How_ could I have been doing all of that and remember none of it? A Memory Charm, cast by Snape, perhaps? But no, I was still thinking muddily, like I had when I believed I was Lockhart. Snape would not be working for Malfoy or the other Death Eaters, except in his capacity as a double mole. But _who else_ could it be?

So engrossed was I in these ruminations that I didn't hear the soft crack nearby, nor any other sound, until a soft voice said next to my ear, "Is Professor Lockhart going mad?"

I jerked, startled, then looked at the large-eared, round-eyed face staring at me over the edge of the bed. "Boddy!" I exclaimed softly, looking around the room. But the only other occupants were behind a large white hospital curtain: Colin Creevy and Justin Finch-Fletchley, along with Nearly Headless Nick, floating in a corner, and Mrs. Norris, perched stiffly on a table beside him. I looked back at the house-elf. "No, I'm not going mad!" I hissed angrily. "Where have you been?" I demanded.

"Boddy has been searching for — for the Dream Glass, just as Boddy told Professor Lockhart he would!"

"The Dream Glass?" I said, annoyed. "I don't remember telling you to look for anything like that!"

"It will show Professor Lockhart what he wants —"

"I know what I _want_, Boddy," I snapped, cutting him off. "I want to figure out who's been making me look like a fool for the last week!"

"Boddy saw," the little house-elf said, his gnarled hands held before his mouth, staring fearfully at me from behind them. "Boddy thought Professor Lockhart must be going insane, to act as he did."

"What did I do?" I asked, in spite of not wanting to know, really.

"At the beginning of the week, Professor Lockhart told all his students that everyone who sent him a Valentine card would receive extra credit in his classes," Boddy replied. "And, Professor said that the card with the best poem would win 25 points for the student's House." I covered my face with my hands. "Plus, sir promised to take one lucky student with him to destroy the Heir of Slytherin when sir finally got around to doing that."

"Oh my God," I moaned. "No wonder all the teachers were so angry with me. I need to know what to do next!" I sank into the bed, feeling lost and exhausted.

"Don't worry, Professor Lockhart," Boddy squeaked. "Boddy will find the Dream Glass, and sir will know what to do!"

"What's this 'Dream Glass' you keep talking about?"

"Boddy has told Professor Lockhart, sir — it is a mirror that shows the things sir wants to know. Boddy saw Harry Potter and his friend Ron Weasley use it, and Boddy used it to see the things he wanted. Sir can use it as well, to see how to solve sir's problems! Other house-elves know of it as well—they call it the Dream Mirror."

"A mirror…." I finally realized what Boddy meant — the Mirror of Erised! "Boddy," I said wearily, covering a huge yawn I suddenly felt come on. "That mirror doesn't show you what you _need to know_ — it shows you what you _desire_. It can't help you get what you want."

"But, sir —" Boddy looked perplexed. "One must know what one wants before one can get it — or know that one cannot have it."

"That's true," I conceded. "Hmm. I hadn't thought of it that way, Boddy — you may be right!"

That did cast the Mirror in a new light, I realized. Could something in the image I might see give me a clue as to how I might solve the riddle of getting home? Come to think of it, I realized, wasn't that how Harry found the Sorcerer's Stone?

"Alright, Boddy," I said, changing my mind about the Mirror in an instant. "Find the Mirror, and we'll see what it shows us."

"Boddy will do so, Professor Lockhart," the house-elf said, backing away and bowing low. Boddy will search unceasingly for it!" And with a _crack_ he was gone.

I started to wonder when Madam Pomfrey would be coming back for me, to bring me to the meeting with Dumbledore, but my eyes were becoming heavy, and I felt myself dropping off…


	15. Chapter 15

I awoke the next morning in my own quarters, lying fully clothed on my own bed. The last thing I remembered was talking to Boddy in the hospital wing; I could only guess that I'd been moved here while still asleep. Or — I may have come here under some other influence, like the other times I'd done things I couldn't remember.

If I had my days straight it was a school day morning; I checked the time: classes would soon begin. Before I did anything else, however, I had to find out what Madam Pomfrey had found out about me. I got up, showered and fixed my hair, then put on a new set of robes and headed to find Professor McGonagall.

I found her in her office, probably just returning from the morning staff meeting. She gave me barely a glance as I strode into her office. "Professor Lockhart, kindly do us the courtesy of attending staff meetings. They are held for your benefit as well as the rest of the staff."

"I'd like to speak to Professor Dumbledore, please," I said, standing in front of her desk, hands on my hips.

"Would you, now?" McGonagall's tone was irritated. "And what makes you think he'd want to see _you_?"

"Pomfrey found out something about me yesterday," I said flatly. "She wanted to talk it over with Dumbledore, and I want to know what it was."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," McGonagall said stiffly. "The Headmaster would have discussed it with me."

"You'd be surprised what Dumbledore doesn't discuss with you, Minerva," I said baldly. I was nearly at the end of my leash.

"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Professor Lockhart!" McGonagall snapped in an affronted tone.

"Just tell me the password, then, and I'll go ask him myself." I jerked a thumb at her door. "Who knows, he might even sack me and you'll all have your wish!"

McGonagall's square eyeglasses flashed furiously. "Very well," she said, incensed. "The password is 'raspberry tart,' and I hope you're right about Professor Dumbledore sacking you!"

Without another word I left and went to the second floor corridor where the gargoyle stood guard at the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Raspberry tart," I said, and it leapt aside. I rode the ascending staircase to the top and rapped on the great polished doors of Dumbledore's office.

"Come in," the Headmaster said, and I strode into his office, determined to get to the truth one way or another. "Ah, Gilderoy, I've been expecting you," Dumbledore said solicitously as I approached his desk, my mouth set in a thin line not unlike the one I'd seen on McGonagall's face just a few minutes ago.

"I want to know," I said calmly, "what Madam Pomfrey found out about me yesterday that she had to come and talk to you about."

Dumbledore, still smiling, pointed to a nearby chair and I sat, looking expectantly at him. He steepled his fingers before him and said, "In the parlance of some health care providers, you appear to have a 'multiple personality disorder,' Gilderoy."

I opened my mouth to protest but the Headmaster stopped me. "Let me finish, please, then we can address your objections. I myself noticed your condition when I visited you in your home last July. Your behavior was markedly different than when I spoke to you briefly on past occasions.

"It changed again when you arrived at the school on September first, although it was similar to our interviews at your home and here, in my office. It perplexed me, I must admit," and Dumbledore gave me an appraising look. "You had seemed a rather straightforward chap, although somewhat vain, on the few occasions we'd met in the past, and of course when you attended school here."

I said nothing, although I must have had a rather grim look on my face, because Dumbledore leaned forward and said _sotto voce_, "Don't worry, Gilderoy, I'm not putting any of this on your permanent record."

I blinked, wondering why Dumbledore had said that to me. He leaned back and went on as if he hadn't interrupted himself. "After Christmas, I noted another change in you. Your personality reverted back to the more familiar Gilderoy Lockhart, the one known and loved by Wizarding communities all over the world —" I raised an eyebrow at that but remained silent "— although you were a bit more reckless with your educational duties than you had been during the previous term.

"Now, I'm glad to say, your overall demeanor is more evocative of the 'fall term Lockhart' again. Now," he placed his hands flat on his desk, staring directly into my eyes. "Gilderoy, let's hear what you have to say about all this."

I sat there for several seconds, weighing my options, knowing he could use Leglimency on me if he desired; I didn't really want to stop it, anyway. If anything was going to stop me from telling Dumbledore the truth, it would have to strike now.

"First of all," I said, taking a deep breath. "There's a simple explanation for the appearance of multiple personalities. The person you met before my interview in North London was with the real Lockhart. _I'm_ not Gilderoy Lockhart, however — I'm someone else."

"I see," Dumbledore said, rubbing a finger up and down on his chin. "Who are you, then?"

"I'm someone from a reality different from this one, where all of the things you and Harry and Voldemort do for the next several years have already been written about."

Dumbledore's eyebrow had raised slightly at my use of the name _Voldemort_. "So," the Headmaster said, steepling his fingers once again. "You are saying that you know what will occur here at Hogwarts _before_ it happens, correct?"

"Yes," I nodded. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"My dear boy," Dumbledore chuckled slightly. "At this point there is nothing to believe or disbelieve. The proof of the pudding, as one might say, is in the tasting. If you'd care to make some predictions, we can see how they play out over time.

"Although," he added, almost to himself, "it will be interesting to compare your predictions to Professor Trelawney's — she has predicted that you will slay the Monster of Slytherin but will be unable to rescue Harry Potter, who will die under the monster's gaze."

"Do you know what the Monster is, then?" I asked.

"I've made an educated guess," Dumbledore replied, "based on my knowledge of the Founders, the layout of this castle, and the various rumors that have abounded here for the past 80 years." When I didn't comment further, Dumbledore put on a slight smile and added, "The Monster is most likely a Basilisk."

"Correct," I said. "Its look normally kills, but the effect can be dampened by viewing a reflection — in which case it causes Petrifaction, not death."

"Is that your only prediction?"

"Harry will kill the Basilisk with Godric Gryffindor's sword," I said. "The Basilisk will fatally wound him with its venom but he'll be healed by Fawkes, your phoenix, who will have brought him the Sorting Hat, from which he will pull Gryffindor's sword. Gilderoy Lockhart will not get any credit for killing the Basilisk — in fact, he will lose most of his memory and be sent to St. Mungo's for several years, at least."

"Fascinating." Dumbledore noted all of this rather dispassionately, I thought. "I shall be interested in seeing that."

"You won't be here," I added. "Lucius Malfoy will have you removed as Headmaster with an order of suspension." This time, both of Dumbledore's eyebrows went up.

"Why would he do that? More importantly, _how_ could Lucius obtain the signatures of all twelve governors, which are required for such a suspension?" Dumbledore looked a bit uncertain now, as if he couldn't imagine Malfoy having the clout to do _that_.

"He threatens to curse the families of the governors who won't agree to sign," I said flatly.

"Ah, of course. Knowing Lucius as I do, that should have been obvious."

"Do you think those predictions will do?" I asked.

"I should think so," Dumbledore agreed amiably. "You realize, however, that everything you have predicted could have been extrapolated from the current situation — except, perhaps, my dismissal; there seems to be no valid reason for that, beyond Lucius's desire to have me removed from Hogwarts."

"Two more students will be Petrified," I replied at once. "It will happen the morning of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, which will be canceled because of it."

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said, looking concerned at last. "Who are the two students?"

"I would rather you not know now, Dumbledore." I hesitated, then added, not looking at him, "your protectiveness of your students might move you to doing something that would alter the events as they are supposed to occur."

"Would you write down their names, if I promised not to look before it occurred?"

I nodded. Dumbledore pushed an envelope toward me, along with a piece of parchment, a quill and an inkwell. I folded the parchment into thirds; then, keeping my eyes on the paper, wrote in small script the names "Penelope Clearwater" and "Hermione Granger," folded the parchment over the names and stuffed it into the envelope. Dumbledore handed me a bit of sealing wax and I used a nearby candle to melt the wax, letting it drip onto the flap of the envelope, then handed it to Dumbledore.

"I shall check this the moment there is another incident with the Monster," Dumbledore said, placing the envelope in a drawer in his desk, and locking it.

After a few moments, I raised my hands and asked, "Now what?"

"Nothing, I hope," Dumbledore said candidly. "You'll go back to your classes and we'll carry on as if nothing at all is amiss. The Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match isn't scheduled for another three months. Until then, we wait."

I snorted. But, I didn't know what else to do. I'd taken my shot and I suppose it was reasonable for Dumbledore to ask for proof. It was just too bad I'd decided to come clean at a time when there was a dearth of details in the book. "Fine," I said, rising to my feet. "We'll wait. I just don't want to end up sitting in St. Mungo's with my brains fried, Professor Dumbledore."

"But," Dumbledore replied quietly. "If your other predictions are correct, Gilderoy, that would seem to be inevitable as well."

I had no reply to that. I left Dumbledore's office.

So the wait began. I kept my classes progressing through their lesson plans, and for the most part everything was going smoothly: no more attacks were due for some time, and I hoped Boddy would show up soon with the Mirror of Erised, so I could take a look at myself and see what I wanted most.

I began to worry that either something had happened to Boddy, or he'd given up his quest to find the Mirror. He wasn't answering any of my whispered requests for him to appear to me, since we'd talked in the infirmary.

As the days turned into weeks, then months, what seemed most strange was how quickly they seemed to pass. I had been dreading the time dragging slowly by as I waited for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, but it seemed to fairly fly by. My biggest concern was only that something might happen that would change circumstances so that what occurred in the book would not happen now, for some reason.

My situation with the other teachers did not improve over time, either, no matter how careful I was to toe the line. Most of them ignored me in the corridors or at the High Table when we ate; only Dumbledore spoke to me regularly. Even Snape had given up baiting me, and instead either ignored me or stared malevolently whenever we passed one another. At least with _him_, I decided, it was an improvement on our former relationship.

By the week before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, I was walking around on eggshells, trying to find Boddy in every room and deserted corridor I traveled through. Finally, late Wednesday night, he suddenly popped into my quarters, looking frantic.

"Professor Lockhart!" he exclaimed, practically jumping into my lap to clutch at my robes. "Boddy cannot find it anywhere! None of the other house-elves searching for it can find it either!" He fell to the floor, prostrating himself in front of me. "Punish Boddy, Professor Lockhart! Boddy deserves your punishment for being unable to find what you ordered him to!"

I was nearly speechless at this unexpected display of abject servility and, it felt like, self-loathing from the little house-elf. "Hold on, Boddy!" I exclaimed, holding up my hands. "I'm not going to punish you for not finding the Mirror of Erised."

"Not that, sir!" Boddy looked up at me, terror in his eyes. "Not the mirror! The book! The book!"

"_What_ book?" I cried, bewildered.

"The black book!" Boddy screeched. "The book Professor Lockhart needs to figure out who the Heir of Slytherin is!"

"A black book?" I said, still confused. "Why would I need that to figure out who the Heir of Slytherin is? I know —"

I stopped and whirled on Boddy, suddenly realizing what book he meant. "_How do you know about that book_?"

"Professor Lockhart _told_ Boddy about the book," Boddy howled. "_Told_ Boddy to find it before tomorrow morning or all would be undone!"

"Hell," I said, almost to myself. I dropped wearily into a chair behind me. "Get up," I said to Boddy, who was still prostrate on the floor in front of me. Boddy got slowly to his feet, then jogged over to the fireplace, retrieving a poker and bringing it back to me.

"Perhaps a beating would give Boddy the inspiration to search harder?" he said, offering it to me. There was a near-wistfulness in his voice that struck me as funny, and I took the poker, laughing, and dropped it on the floor next to my chair.

"We don't need the book, Boddy," I told him, still chuckling. "I already know who the Heir of Slytherin is."

Boddy's eyes widened. "Sir _does_?"

"Yes," I said. "It's Tom Riddle."

"Has Professor Lockhart told Professor Dumbledore this?" Boddy asked eagerly.

"Dumbledore already knows, too. He knew it months ago when the Chamber was first opened." I remembered reading in the second book, Dumbledore telling McGonagall, after they'd brought a Petrified Colin Creevy into the infirmary, that the question wasn't _who_, but _how_.

Boddy looked a bit indignant at this. He put his gnarled little hands on his hips and said, almost snappishly, "Boddy supposes that Professor Lockhart even knows where the book is, then?"

"Well —" I said with a shrug. "Let's see..." The last I remembered of Riddle's diary, now that I remembered how much it figures into the plot late in the book, Harry and Ron had found it in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom just after the Christmas holidays. Harry had shown it to Hermione after she got out of the infirmary, and she thought it might have had invisible writing in it, but she'd been wrong. At some point some ink had spilled on the book, but Harry noticed that it had all disappeared without a trace, while his other books were still stained.

Harry figured out the secret of Riddle's diary later that night, and learned how Riddle framed Hagrid over the opening of the Chamber; the acromantula Aragog escaped into the Forbidden Forest, and Hagrid was expelled, fifty years ago.

"Yes," I said finally, perhaps a bit smugger than I ought to have been. "Harry Potter has it. It's safe.

"Don't worry about it anymore," I told Boddy. "Get back to looking for that Mirror. I want to have a look in _it_."

Boddy nodded and disappeared with a _crack_. I hoped he would find it soon — even if it didn't help me, it was at least worth a try.

By Friday afternoon, however, Boddy had not reappeared with the Mirror of Erised's location, and I was becoming worried. My second year Defense Against the Dark Arts class was meeting, and I was distracting myself by watching Harry, Ron and Hermione whispering in the back of class rather than reading their assignment. I suspected Hermione had already read it, of course.

Somewhere, in Fred or George's things, I knew, was the Marauder's Map. It would be nice to have it — I could keep track of where everyone in the castle was — but there was no chance of getting my hands on it. If I could only improvise something like it…

But that seemed equally unlikely. I wasn't going to duplicate something like the Marauder's Map in less than a day! It just bugged me, I thought, to have something that useful so close, and yet so inaccessible.

Bugged me… _Bugged_! That had given me an idea! I called Hermione up to the front of the room.

"I need to go into my office for a bit," I told her quietly. "I'm going to leave you in charge of the classroom."

"Yes, sir," she said, glowing with pride at being given this duty.

"I'll return shortly," I said to the class, standing and walking toward the door. "Until then, Miss Granger is in charge." I ran up to my office, trying to find a small, unobtrusive object I could use. I finally came across a small, black button. That would be perfect.

I found a small drum among the knick knacks scattered around my office, a small item of sympathetic magic from an African tribal shaman that used primitive magic. The drum would make a good resonator, I figured.

I pointed my wand at the button and said, "_Proteus_!" The button quivered softly under the Protean Charm. I pointed to the drum and repeated the incantation. As an afterthought I repeated the charm on another button. I would have to test this on the fly, but if it worked, it would be very useful.

I put the second button and the drum in one of my robe pockets, keeping the other button in my hand, and headed back toward my classroom. Just outside the door, I positioned the button in my left hand so it was held in place by two of my fingers, and placed a Sticking Charm on one side of the button. At the same time, I noticed my left hand was tingling, suddenly — what was wrong with it _now_? I hoped the problems I'd had with it after I touched the dementor weren't coming back!

I walked back into the classroom, noting a flurry of movement followed by quiet. Hermione got up from the desk and started back toward her seat next to Harry and Ron, but I stopped her and put my left hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Miss Granger," I said, "for a job well done." There were several sniggers from the class, and Hermione blushed, nodded, and hurried back to her seat. The button, which I had palmed, was now stuck to the back of her robe. I hoped it would be good enough.

Sitting down at my desk again, I placed the drum in one of the desk drawers, leaving it slightly open. From the drumhead, I could hear Ron's voice.

"How could you let that smarmy git touch you?" he was saying to Hermione. It was working!

"He's not a git, Ron!" Hermione responded in my defense.

"Well, he hasn't been acting like one for a while now," Harry muttered. "I haven't had to play a troll or a werewolf for him for weeks now."

The bell for the end of class rang. "Remember your assignments for next week!" I said over the hubbub of students rushing into the corridors. I reached in my pocket, trying to find the second button and apply a Sticking Charm to it, too, before Harry, Ron and Hermione left. They were gathering their books to leave.

I finally got the charm applied and walked rapidly their way. Harry, seeing me coming, stepped back and away, making it impossible for me walk up behind him. That left only Ron…

As Ron stood up with his rucksack, I clapped my hand on his back. He flinched, and I said cheerfully, "Ready to watch Harry fly in tomorrow's game, Mr. Weasley?"

"Oh — yeah," Ron said, sidling around between me and the desk, as if my touch was the last thing he'd wanted to feel. But I'd gotten the button on his back, at least. "Uh — see you, Professor."

"Have a nice weekend," I said, waving them out of the room. I went back to my desk and sat down to listen.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked.

"_I_ dunno," Ron replied, his voice almost shrill.

"Maybe he's decided he likes you better'n Hermione," Harry said jokingly.

"I bloody well hope _not_!" Ron replied indignantly.

"Ron, he's teasing you," Hermione said, laughing.

I sat back, smiling. Not _quite_ as good as the Marauder's Map, I thought, but I could hear their conversations this way, something the Map wasn't capable of. I'd wanted to get the second button on Harry, but Ron was almost always with him — it'd be nearly as good.

After dinner, I went back to my quarters to see what was happening with Ron and Hermione. I was able to control the volume of sound coming from each button by controlling the sensitivity of the Protean Charm on the drum for that button. Listening in on Ron first, I found he was with two of his other dormitory mates, Dean and Seamus, at dinner in the Great Hall.

I switched over to Hermione, but the only thing I heard was an occasional page turning and the murmur of voices nearby. She was evidently reading, so she might be in the Library. No — there wouldn't be voices in the Library, with Madam Pince there, I knew.

Suddenly I heard Ron and Dean's voices — they must be walking past Hermione — and that meant they were trying to find Harry. I switched over to listen in on Ron's button, just in time to hear Dean swear.

"What happened, Harry?" came Ron's voice.

"No idea," Harry replied. I listened closely; Seamus was asking Neville, who was evidently there as well, what was going on. I heard Neville say he'd found the room like this just before Harry came up.

"Someone's been looking for something," Ron said. "Is there anything missing?"

I heard things being moved about for a minute, then Harry's voice saying softly, "Riddle's diary's gone."

"_What_?" Both Ron and I had exclaimed this at the same time. I had forgotten all about this! Damn! I could hear footfalls echoing as Ron hurried somewhere. Voices began to fill up the background and I realized he (and Harry, I now remembered) were going down to the common room.

"Hermione," Harry whispered. "Someone's taken Riddle's diary from my trunk."

"Oh, _no_!" Hermione sounded aghast. "But—only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody else knows our password — "

"Exactly," Harry said.

They sat together for the next several hours, trying to figure out who it might be. I listened to it all, hating myself for not remembering that this happened, for not finding a way to keep it from being stolen. Because of course, I knew who'd done it.

Ginny.

Ginny, who'd fallen under Riddle's influence in the fall term, killing the school's roosters so the Basilisk could leave the Chamber without fear of hearing them crow and being killed as it crawled about within the school, then writing on the walls of the first floor near Moaning Myrtle's toilet to proclaim that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened once again.

Once she'd realized that she might somehow be responsible for the evil things that were happening, she tried to figure out what to do. She'd even asked Lockhart for help, just before Christmas, but I was still laboring under the delusion I was him; I had no way of knowing, then, what she was up against. And during the spring term I'd been too selfishly involved with my own affairs to see what had been happening with her, until now. When it was too late.

They finally broke up to go to bed, and I went as well, planning to be up early to see what I could hear when they did. The next morning when I awoke, however, the sun was much higher in the sky than I expected. I threw on a housecoat and ran into the front room to check the cuckoo clock: it was 11:15. That meant the Quidditch match was already canceled, and by now Harry and Ron had seen Hermione Petrified in the infirmary. My left hand, which had been tingling yesterday, was now stiff, nearly immobile. I needed some help, and fast.

"Boddy!" I shouted. "Come here NOW!"

There was a _crack_ across the room from me. Boddy stood there, cowering, afraid to approach me. "I don't know what you're afraid of," I snapped at him. "_I'm_ the one who's failed!"

"_You_, sir?" Boddy said, amazed. "Never, Professor Lockhart! The Heir of Slytherin must have gotten the book away from you somehow!"

"No, I — _what did you just say_?"

"Professor Lockhart must have put up a terrific fight," Boddy said, still holding his arms defensively over himself. "Boddy is grateful sir is still alive!"

"Boddy, how could the Heir of Slytherin _get the book away from me_? I never had it!" I shouted.

"Boddy gave it to Professor Lockhart this morning, sir!" Boddy protested. "Sir left these quarters, taking it with him."

"Where did I go?"

"Boddy did not follow, sir."

"Dammit!" I said, shaking. "I've got to figure out what's going on! Boddy, did you ever find out where that damned Mirror was?"

"Boddy has looked and looked through the entire school, Professor Lockhart — it cannot be found." Boddy shrugged helplessly. "It is lost, lost forever."

"It's not going to do us any good thinking like that," I said sternly. "We've got to find it. Where have you looked?"

"Boddy has looked _everywhere_, Professor Lockhart."

"Even in the Room of Lost Things?"

Boddy shook his head, confused. "The _what_ room, sir?"

Suddenly it made sense. Boddy had never heard of the Room of Lost Things! "It's in the Room of Requirement, Boddy!" I said with growing excitement. "It must be! When someone needs to hide something in the castle, it appears as a room where they can hide the thing they need hidden. It's been used for hundreds of years — there are thousand of lost and hidden things stored in there!

Boddy had an almost annoyed look on his homely face. "Professor Lockhart might have mentioned this 'Room of Lost Things before now," he said, almost plaintively.

"Never mind that now!" I said, in a rush. "Come on!"

We raced to the seventh floor and to the corridor where the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy unceasingly taught ballet to trolls. Striding back and forth in front of the wall opposite the tapestry, I concentrating on getting into the Lost Things Room while Boddy watched nervously.

On my third pass, a door appeared on the wall. I opened it quickly and gestured Boddy inside with me, then pulled it shut. We looked around the room.

"Wow," said Boddy, looking around in astonishment.

The room was immense, much larger than the one I'd been in when I was here last year. Windows were shining light onto towers of objects I could only guess at the origins of. I'd read about this room and the generations of lost and hidden things that had accumulated here in the novels, but actually seeing it all was staggering. The piles and stacks of things made small paths and avenues between them: torn and dirtied books by the hundreds or even thousands, broken furniture, piles of old and moldering clothing, cabinets with broken and dripping potion bottles, stacks of scrolls, magical toys like Fanged Frisbees as well as things I'd never dreamed of, broken and cracked brooms, swords, even a bloody axe.

"Wow is right," I agreed. "But we have to find that Mirror. It has to be in here somewhere." I drew my wand, in case I needed it to ward off falling objects or other unexpected things, and we began to look. It couldn't be very far in, I reasoned, since it had probably been put in here only 16 or 17 months ago. I wandered up and down through the stacks of old books, broken four-poster beds, and student desks, watching for something tall and reflective.

"Professor Lockhart!" Boddy suddenly shouted, and I hurried to where he stood, pointing toward a tall, gold-framed mirror standing at the end of a double alleyway of books stacked nearly as high as the mirror itself. I looked along the top, reading the inscription there: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_.

_I show not your face but your heart's desire_. I took a deep breath and stepped in front of the Mirror. And gasped.

Standing there, I saw not only Lockhart's reflection but my own, original face, standing next to him. I reached up, touching my face, and my reflection did the same.

"It's me…" I said slowly.

The image of Lockhart turned toward me in the mirror, a brilliant smile across his face, and said, "And me, too."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

I stared at the images of my real self and Lockhart standing side-by-side. The reflection of Lockhart was now looking back at me, a glib smile on his face.

"Well, we meet at last," he said cheerfully. "Been a bit of a squeeze for the past few months, hasn't it?"

"Are you — Lockhart?" I finally asked.

"Obviously, dear boy!" Lockhart's reflection spread his arms ostentatiously, though I hadn't moved. I took an automatic step back, and my own reflection did as well. So I was seeing myself back in my own body in the Mirror, while Lockhart was seeing himself in his reflection. And we were both seeing each other, although normally the Mirror of Erised only showed you your own heart's desire, not anyone else's. I had no idea why this was happening.

Boddy was looking back and forth between me and the mirror. He probably could not see or hear what I was, other than what I was saying. "Professor Lockhart!" he exclaimed. "Sir should leave this room! Something bad is going to happen —!"

I stopped Boddy with a gesture. "Where did you come from? Where have you been?" I asked the reflection of Lockhart.

Lockhart's image was still smiling, but he had a haunted look in his eyes. "Near as I can recall, I was attacked by a dementor one morning in my room. Would have overcome it, too, except it managed to knock my wand from my hand."

"Your wand was on the table next to your robe in the morning," I pointed out. "You probably never had a chance without it."

Lockhart waved an airy hand. "Not that it matters — I'm back now."

"That's my next question," I said. "How did you get back — eh, inside?" I gestured at myself, but in the mirror the reflection of me, not Lockhart, was the one who moved.

Lockhart shrugged. "Don't know, really. I was in some dark, cold place for a long time. It seemed to drag on forever. Thoroughly unpleasant, I can tell you!" His reflection shuddered at the mention of it.

"Every so often some warm, happy thoughts would seem to seep in," Lockhart went on, staring upward, looking like a man reaching for a lifeline. "Then it would disappear, as if it'd never been, and as if I'd never be happy again."

He looked back at me. "Then, suddenly, I saw — myself. I was reaching down, and — and — I reached up —" Lockhart raised both of his hands over his head, as if reaching for himself again. "— and grabbed onto my hand, and pulled myself out of wherever I was.

"I thought I'd managed to rescue myself." Lockhart lowered his hands. "But then I found — _you_."

I'd grabbed the dementor as it was to suck my soul out of Lockhart's body and into itself. Suddenly I realized where Lockhart had been.

"Your soul was _inside_ the dementor!" I exclaimed. "It had sucked you out of your body!"

"_Yes_!" Lockhart said, his eyes looking wild in the reflection. "I never realized — thought I was dead… but I was still connected to my body, somehow… _That_ connection, and your fighting it, helped me find a way back into my own body.

"Thank you," he finished.

"You're welcome," I said, slowly.

"Now, I shouldn't like to appear ungrateful," Lockhart went on, an apologetic look coming over his face, "but I think it's high time I got my body back. After all, you've been using it for almost a year now. I think you should go back where you _came_ from."

"I can't," I said flatly. "I don't know how I got here in the first place, or how I ended up in your body."

"I'm not concerned with that," Lockhart said dismissively. "_I'm_ concerned with what you told Dumbledore is going to happen in less than a month."

"When you end up in St. Mungo's, Obliviated," I recalled.

"How does it happen? Tell me!" Lockhart demanded.

"You'll find out _when_ it happens," I smirked, not willing to give away anything I didn't need to. Apparently, Lockhart and I couldn't read each other's thoughts — only what we said aloud.

"The way things are now, we're both going to end up that way. I think together we can find a way to avoid it," Lockhart wheedled.

He might be right, but… I couldn't trust him. I still didn't know what to do, though!

"Not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, eh?" Lockhart said, looking a bit disappointed. "Tell you what — I'll give you some information you really need to know."

"Like what?" I asked warily.

"Like the problem you've got with your left hand," Lockhart said. "Give it a look." His reflection in the mirror showed genuine concern.

After a few moments I cautiously brought my left hand up before my face. I examined it closely. "See the problem?" Lockhart asked.

"No," I murmured. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Look closer," Lockhart urged. "You've got to really study it."

I peered closely at the palm and fingers, flexing them slightly. This was the hand that had grabbed the dementor. Strangely, it seemed okay now, but —

My other hand, still holding my wand jerked upward suddenly, pointing to my face. Before I could fling it away Lockhart shouted "_Imperio_ —!"

And my mind went blank, and black. Curiously, it felt good: all my worries, all my doubts and uncertainties, had fallen away, leaving me relaxed and willing to stay that way.

"Ah, much better," Lockhart's voice was saying. He was looking at himself in the Mirror of Erised, and while I could see my pale reflection, now standing behind him, whatever he was seeing in the mirror was not revealed to me.

His eyes flicked to my reflection. "Are you still there?" I nodded mutely. "Can you speak?" Lockhart pressed me.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Finally I managed to breath the word, "Yes," in a bare whisper.

"Interesting," Lockhart said, rolling his wand absently in his fingers. "In case you haven't guessed," he said, putting the wand away. "I was able to get you to focus your attention on your left hand so I could use _my_ wand to place the Imperius Curse on you. Now you will have no choice but to obey me, and I've ordered you to give up complete control of this body to me."

But that seemed nonsensical to me. "How could you avoid the Imperius Curse yourself?" I whispered slowly.

"Ah, good question!" Lockhart seemed to be enjoying his victory over me. "And the answer is very simple, really: No one can Imperius themself. Otherwise we'd all be better at keeping our appearance up in the morning, wouldn't we?" He ran a hand through his blond hair, looking at himself with some consternation. "I mean — really! D'you actually think this is a good look for me?"

"Well, not matter," he decided a moment later. "I'm in charge now — we'll have no more scrimping on hair care!" He turned and strode toward the exit, gesturing imperiously at Boddy. "Come along, you — bring that Mirror to my quarters. I'll want to study it more carefully later."

Just that quickly, events had plunged back into nightmare. I found that I could no longer control Lockhart's body, even while he slept, because the Imperius Curse forbade me. The following morning, the staff learned that Dumbledore and Hagrid had both left the school: Dumbledore had been removed as Headmaster, leaving McGonagall in charge, and Hagrid had been whisked off to Azkaban for the Petrifaction of Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater.

Lockhart was quick to capitalize on Hagrid's imprisonment. He kept telling the other teachers that when the Petrified students were revived, they would name Hagrid as the Heir of Slytherin.

I couldn't even be angry about my predicament — the Imperius Curse kept me calm and more or less resigned to the situation. I kept trying to find a way to break the spell, but not being able to use my body made it much harder to focus my attention. All I seemed to be was a viewpoint behind Lockhart's eyes, watching as he smiled cheerfully at students during their lessons, babbled on uselessly in the staff meetings about how he would have to start doing something about the "Heir of Slytherin problem" before it became too much of a nuisance to him, and generally infuriated both the staff and students wherever he went now.

Nighttime was the only time I could attempt to break free of the Imperius Curse, while Lockhart was sleeping. Early on, when I'd tried while was teaching one of his classes, he excused himself, went to his quarters to stand in front of the Mirror of Erised and reapply the Imperius Curse. After I recovered enough to try and break free again, I only attempted to do so at night. But in nearly three weeks, the most I'd succeeded in was getting Lockhart's eyes to open.

I'd hoped to try again that night, but Lockhart had drawn guard duty for the fourth floor, and walked around muttering to himself about teachers supposedly having reasonable hours and not what he'd signed up for, and other such blather until he was relieved by a stone-faced Snape and he fell into bed, fully clothed and face-down, so that I had barely had a chance to practice anything before he awakened suddenly, four hours later, and found his eyes wide open.

He dashed in front of the Mirror of Erised, glaring at my reflection. "Been trying to get free while I'm having a kip, eh?" he said, wagging a reproachful finger at me. "We'll have none of that!" Taking his wand, he pointed it at my reflection in the Mirror and said, "_Imperio_!" I stiffened under its renewed enchantment.

"There," he said, looking at my reflection in the Mirror. "I may have to start redoing this every morning, just in case." He reached into his pocket, where Riddle's diary could almost always be found now, flipping absently through its pages, a small smile on his lips.

I'd grown stronger in the past few weeks, and I could answer in more than a whisper now. "How much longer are you going to study that book, Lockhart?" He'd been looking slowly through the pages of Riddle's diary over the past month, trying to figure out if a secret message had been hidden on the pages, just as Hermione had done. The one thing he _hadn't_ tried yet was actually writing in the book. I'd been uncooperative in helping him figure it out, and he'd retaliated by setting his classes difficult reading and homework assignments.

Fortunately, he'd stopped asking me weeks ago how he would end up Obliviated, while I'd only been able to talk in a whisper, and hadn't thought to bring it up again now that my speech came much more easily.

"I'm done with it, actually," Lockhart said, giving me a cold smile. "It's time I passed it on to its rightful owner." He suddenly yawned hugely. "Ruddy midnight guard duty," he groused to himself.

"And who's that?" I said, playing dumb. I wondered who he thought the "rightful owner" was supposed to be.

"Miss Weasley," Lockhart said, wiggling his eyebrows at me. "Oh yes, I've known that for months, really. She came to me one evening, after you'd gone to sleep. She told me she'd thrown the book away, down a toilet in a girls' bathroom, but she'd gone back in to get it after the toilets overflowed and the mess had been cleaned up.

"Only _there was no_ book. She thought the book had gone down the drain after all. I was afraid she was right, until you told the little house-elf that Harry Potter had it.

"After that, it was simple," Lockhart shrugged. I called for your little helper and told him to fetch the book from Harry's room."  
"And when are you giving it to Ginny Weasley?"

There was a faint knock on Lockhart's office door. "Very soon now," Lockhart said to my reflection. "Watch and see." He went into his office from his private quarters and opened the door, motioning for Ginny to come in the room quickly. She did so, looking badly scared.

"Professor Lockhart," she whispered urgently. "I'm — I'm not sure about this. Perhaps we should tell Harry or Ron about it — they could probably be loads of help —"

"No, my dear," Lockhart held up a hand, shushing her gently. "You're the one who must do this. You are — pure of heart, and that will help you immensely in the Chamber of Secrets."

She smiled fleetingly. Lockhart's story was playing on her emotions — maybe she wanted to be like Harry in some way, and this was how she thought she could do it, by taking on the Heir of Slytherin just as he had taken on Voldemort, through Quirrell, last year."

"What d-do I have to do?" she asked apprehensively.

Lockhart's voice was calm and reassuring — learned, no doubt from his many years of convincing unsuspecting witches and wizards to tell him their stories before he Obliviated their memories and reused them as his own. "After your second period class go to the girls' toilet where you flushed the book. I'll be there to give it to you, and we'll defeat the Heir of Slytherin together.

"Remember," he told her, his voice sounding quite intense. "Not a word of this to _anyone_! It'll be our secret, yes?"

She nodded shakily. "Off you go to breakfast, then," Lockhart said with a smile, and she bolted out the door. Smiling, Lockhart walked back in front of the Mirror.

"You're not going to help her defeat the Heir of Slytherin," I said in a low voice. "You don't even know where the Chamber is."

Lockhart chuckled. "It's not as if I want to, either. No, I have a better plan in mind, my boy. I'm going to send her off to find the monster, then pop off to alert the other teachers that Miss Weasley has gone to fight it. We'll all go off together, and after they defeat it, I'll mop up whoever's left and write it up for my second autobiography."

"You're the monster here," I told him "You can't just —"

But Lockhart walked away from the Mirror, leaving me mute once again. Unless I could completely break free of the Imperius Curse in one go, however, I couldn't hope to stop him.

A few minutes later Lockhart headed downstairs to the Great Hall for breakfast. As he walked through the open double doors, though, he spied Ginny Weasley walking toward Harry and Ron, sitting at the Gryffindor table. He ducked quickly back into the Entrance Hall.

"Damn!" he muttered under his breath. "The little brat is going to rat me out!" I smiled grimly in my thoughts, wondering what McGonagall and the other teachers would do when they found Lockhart had Riddle's diary.

"Hello, Professor, what's going on?" Lockhart looked up, toward the staircase. Coming down it was Percy Weasley, looking at Lockhart inquiringly.

"Come here, Weasley," Lockhart gestured frantically, and Percy ran down the rest of the stairs to Lockhart's side, eager to please a teacher, even one such as Lockhart. With his left hand, Lockhart pulled Percy toward the doorway of the Great Hall, while his right hand dipped into his robes, pulling out his wand.

"Look over there," he said, pointing to Harry, Ron and Ginny, and as his wand pressed into Percy's back he whispered, "_Imperio_!" in Percy's ear. Percy's expression went blank.

"Your sister's telling them something you don't' want them to hear," he hissed in the young prefect's ear. "Go stop her from doing it." Instantly Percy set out toward the table. Lockhart stepped back out of view. As we watched, Ginny appeared almost ready to tell Harry and Ron something when Percy walked over and ordered her out of the seat. She jumped up and scampered away, toward the High Table. Satisfield, Lockhart walked into the room as if he'd just arrived and took a seat at the High Table. Ginny, seeing him, dropped the piece of toast she'd picked up and bolted out of the Hall.

After breakfast, Lockhart headed for his classes, piling on more homework even though final exams began the following Monday. Students, already stressed from the last Petrifactions a few weeks before, followed hard upon by Dumbledore's removal and Hagrid being sent to Azkaban, groaned as Lockhart loaded on even more. "We'll want them too busy to worry about what the other teachers are doing until it's too late," he muttered to me under his breath.

Between classes, teachers now led students in groups to their next classroom. There was some tricky logistics involved, since almost every teacher had to make a trip to another classroom then back to their own (or to another one if they had no class following the last one). At the end of second period Lockhart had to escort a group of students to the Charms classroom. He was about to leave when one of the students spoke up (in fact, it was Harry Potter!) saying, "Professor, we need an escort to our next class, please."

Lockhart sighed, annoyed. "You're not in my class until this afternoon, Mr. Potter."

"I know, sir, but we're going to History of Magic. Could you take us there, please?"

"Oh, very well," Lockhart said. "Line up and let's be off."

Lockhart looked around impatiently, probably absorbed in his own evil thoughts, but I heard Ron mutter to Harry, "What'd you do _that_ for?"

"You'll see," Harry replied. Then Lockhart waved to the group and they started off down the corridor toward the History of Magic classroom.

Lockhart may have been a bit vexed by Harry's commandeering of him for escort duty, because he pulled out one of his old chestnuts, probably based on Harry's friendship with Hagrid.

"Mark my words," he said, looking back at Harry. "The first words out of those poor Petrified people's mouths will be '_It was Hagrid_.' Frankly, I'm astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these security measures are necessary."

"I agree, sir," Harry said, nodding, while beside him, Ron stumbled, dropping his books.

I felt Lockhart smile. "Thank you, Harry!" We stopped at an intersection while a long line of Hufflepuffs walked by, led by Professor Sprout. Lockhart, turning away from them for a moment, stifled another yawn. "I mean," he went on, looking back at Harry as Ron picked up his books, "we teachers have quite enough to be getting on with, without walking students to classes and standing guard all night…"

Ron looked up at Harry, who raised his eyebrows at him, then turned to look shrewdly at Lockhart. "That's right," he said agreeably. "Why don't you leave us here, sir, we've only got one more corridor to go —"

Lockhart probably couldn't believe his luck, since he had to hurry to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom to pass the diary to Ginny. I sighed inwardly; I could hardly believe his luck, either. Or mine.

"You know, Weasley, I think I will," he said, beaming. "I really should go and prepare my next class —" And with a cheery wave he turned and left them there.

Hurrying to Myrtle's bathroom, he looked around to see that no one else was in the corridor, then swiftly stepped into the small, shabby room.

Ginny was there waiting for him, looking terrified. Smiling smugly, Lockhart patted her on the shoulder as he pressed the small black book into her hand.

"Now," he said, as she clutched the book nervously. "I want you to go to the Chamber of Secrets and wait for me—I'll be along in a few minutes with some help."

"I thought you and I were going to do this _alone_!" Ginny cried, frantic with fear. "You've got to come with me!"

"Go along then," Lockhart said, annoyed. "I'll be right behind you!"

"I don't know where the Chamber is!" Ginny sobbed.

Lockhart threw up his hands. "Oh, rubbish!" he shouted. "I thought that book told you where it is!"

"It did!" she shouted back. "But I can never remember afterwards!"

"Bloody hell!" Lockhart snapped, striding toward the door. He stopped there, hand on the door, and without turning around said, "Look, I've had about enough of this foolishness from you, young lady! If you want to get that young fellow you like so much to notice you, you can't go blubbering about like some crybaby!" He whirled around to face her. "You've got to be strong, like me —"

But Ginny was no longer crying. Her wand was drawn and pointing at Lockhart's chest; her features had gone hard, and her eyes seemed to flash red as she said, "Liar," then shouted "_Stupefy_!"

Lockhart's hand was going for his wand before he even realized it — because I had gone for it as well. His hand closed on the wand and before he even drew it I shouted "_Protego_!" in my head.

The red bolt from Ginny's wand struck Lockhart full in the chest, and he fell down sideways, his head smacking against the floor. He was out cold.

I, however, was not. For some reason, the Shield Charm I'd used nonverbally had protected me, but not him. I was still conscious.

As I watched, Ginny smiled at Lockhart's unconscious form, then walked past me out of the bathroom. She returned a minute later and walked down the row of toilet stalls to the last one, leaning over the sink opposite the stall and saying something. It sounded like she was gargling, but the tap on the sink began to spin, then the sink — _sank_, into the floor, revealing an opening that Ginny walked up to and sat down, on the lip. She said something again, another hissing sound (of course, I knew it was Parseltongue), then slid down the hole as the sink rose back into place.

I blinked and took a deep breath, then realized — the Imperius Curse must've broken! That was how I'd instinctively grabbed Lockhart's wand. I leapt to my feet. If I could keep Lockhart in the dark about the Curse being broken, I might be able to do something in a critical moment to stop him!

First thing, I knew, was to get somewhere safe for him to awaken, like his office. He'd been yawning — I hoped he would think he'd merely fallen asleep there and dreamed what had happened. Running up to my office, I lay down upon the sofa, putting his wand back in his pocket. He'd be missed in his third period class, but that was the least of our worries now!

After so long being unable to move, because of the Imperius Curse, it was difficult not to want to move now, as I lay here on the sofa waiting for Lockhart to awaken. It was also a risk, coming here—Lockhart might go into his quarters and renew the Imperius Curse, just as a precaution. I would have to hope he would be too preoccupied with his plans.

Finally, not long before the end of the third period, Lockhart began to stir. "Uhh," he moaned, sitting up. "What happened?" Looking around, he recognized his office. Then, as I feared, he dashed into his quarters to stand in front of the Mirror.

"What happened?" he demanded. "Why am I here?"

"You fell asleep on the couch," I said, trying to sound annoyed. "After you sent the poor Weasley girl off to her death, you came in here to rest for a second and nodded off. I've been waiting nearly an hour for you to wake up. At least your third period class didn't have to put up with you."

A grin was spreading slowly across Lockhart's features. "Nice try," he said, pulling his wand from his robe. "But I seem to remember Ginny _attacking_ me in the bathroom." He started to point his wand at my reflection.

"Probably a dream, I suppose," I said, trying to sound indifferent. "You went out almost as soon as you lay down."

"It seemed pretty ruddy real to me," Lockhart said, though he hesitated, holding the wand poised to strike.

"Then I think you would've awakened in the _bathroom_, wouldn't you," I retorted.

Lockhart's expression in the mirror was uncertain. "Good point," he muttered. "But a little booster couldn't —"

Suddenly McGonagall's voice echoed, magically amplified, through the corridors. "_All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please_."

Lockhart and I both listened; me, grim-faced, him smiling. "Good!" he said exultantly. "Sounds like my plan is working!" He ran to his desk, grabbing a handful of chocolates he kept there and throwing them into his pocket, then making for the door. He stopped for a moment, looked back at the Mirror of Erised, then muttered, "Well, I'll attend to you in a bit."

Sauntering down to the staff room, he pushed open the door with a bang and stood there, beaming, as if nothing were amiss.

"So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?"

As in the book, it was indeed obvious (to me, if not to Lockhart) that the other teachers were staring at him with hatred. I think Lockhart must've expected them to ask for his advice, at which time he would suggest mounting a rescue mission for Ginny. Obviously, he didn't realize how many bridges he'd burned in just the last few weeks.

Snape stepped forward with a malevolent smirk on his face. "Just the man," he said. "The very man! A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last."

Lockhart, who'd been expected a quite different response, blanched.

"That's right, Gilderoy," Professor Sprout added. "Weren't you saying just last night that you've known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?" She smiled nastily.

"I — well, I —" Lockhart was trying to backpedal, but they were at him on all sides now.

"Yes, didn't you tell me you were sure you knew who was inside it?" Professor Flitwick piped up.

"D-did I?" Lockhart gibbered. "I don't recall —"

"I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn't had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested," Snape went on. "Didn't you say that the who affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free rein from the first?"

Lockhart was backed into a corner, literally. "I — I really never —" he tried to bluster. "You may have misunderstood—"

"We'll leave it to _you_, then, Gilderoy," McGonagall finished up the assault. "Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We'll make sure everyone's out of your way. You'll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last."

Lockhart said nothing for several seconds. I thought, _the best-laid plans of mice and men_… Lockhart's face felt clenched — as if he was about to cry.

But, he finally rallied enough to say, "V-very well, I'll—I'll be in my office, getting — getting ready," he finished, then turned and strode from the room.

As soon as he'd turned a corner, however, he broke into a dead run. "Oh no, oh _noo_," he was whispering to himself.

The next several hours were the most difficult I've ever faced in my life, as Lockhart spent the entire afternoon racing around his quarters pulling down his portraits, packing up his clothes and his books, all as quietly as possible, so no one would know what he was doing.

I kept as quiet as possible, too, hoping he would forget about me in his mad rush to pack and escape. I knew he would fail, of course—Harry and Ron would come down later, to talk to him, and discover him packing. He would confess the truth behind his books, then attempt to use a Memory Charm on them, but Harry would disarm him.

That was going to be a sticky point for me. I needed to keep Lockhart's wand on him somehow, hopefully in such a place he wouldn't realize he had it, once he'd been disarmed. Of course, I had to overcome a couple of obstacles first: first, I needed a way for him to both keep his wand and lose it; and two, I needed him unconscious for a minute or two while I did that.

Long past dinner time, well after 7 p.m., Lockhart sat down in a chair, winded and sweating even though he'd only been doing relatively light labor. His trunks were mostly packed, with only a few wardrobes left to empty out and one more wall of portraits to empty. "Whew," he muttered a he mopped his brow, "this is harder work than I remembered when I put these out." _Probably_ _because you didn't put them out, you git_, I thought, annoyed.

"Just a little breather," he said, leaning back in the chair. "And I'll be right as rain…" A few moments later he began snoring. I could hardly believe _my_ luck now.

But, what could I do? I'd been thinking of all sorts of things to try: sneaking down to the infirmary to take Hermione's wand. But no, Lockhart would certainly wake up. I thought about a thin cord tied to the wand so I could reel it back in. But again, no — if Harry or Ron caught the wand they'd see the cord right off. I almost needed to come up with another wand…

Wait — that was the answer! A _duplicate wand_! I could make a duplicate of Lockhart's wand and put it in his wand pocket. It would be just like the duplicate locket Horcrux Hermione made so Dolores Umbridge wouldn't realize it was missing. Then, when Harry disarmed him, they'd both think his wand was gone; but I'd have it secured in his left-side off pocket, where he rarely placed anything.

With my right hand I slowly extracted Lockhart's wand, listening to his snoring. Now, if I could just find something to transfigure into his wand. With my left hand I felt around carefully in his inside pockets until I found — his peacock quill. I smiled. This would be especially fitting, seeing as how Lockhart was better at using this quill than he was at using his own wand! I held the peacock quill close to the wand, to minimize my movements, then tapped it, whispering "_Geminio_." The quill throbbed and flowed into a double of Lockhart's wand. I compared them—they were identical. Carefully switching them into opposite hands, I put the duplicate wand into Lockhart's wand pocket and his real one into a pocket on his left side.

Not a moment too soon: the cuckoo clock on the wall chirped once, signaling 7:30 p.m. Lockhart stirred, rubbing his neck, then stretched. "Ah, that feels better," he said — for my benefit, I suppose.

Standing, he walked into his quarters to grab a handful of robes from the wardrobe, then glanced into the Mirror of Erised as he walked by. "You know, I'd forgotten all about you," he said to my reflection. "We have some unfinished business from earlier, don't we?"

"You're just a bloody coward," I snapped at him. "Sending that poor girl to her death, trying to get the other teachers to fight your battles for you! They certainly showed you, didn't they —"

"_Imperio_!" Lockhart had drawn and pointed his wand at me, and my face went slack. "That's should do it," he said, satisfied. He walked back into his office, staring up at the clock. "I'm going to have to work a lot faster if I'm going to be out of here before sunset," he said. He hefted his wand. "Maybe I need to chance a bit of magical packing." I tried not to tense up — he might notice. But if he tried that wand and it didn't work…

There was a sudden knock on his office door.

Lockhart jumped, looking fearfully that way. He shoved his wand in his pocket then crept quietly over to the door, opening it a crack. It was Harry and Ron.

"Oh — Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley —" he said, opening the door a crack more. "I'm rather busy at the moment — if you would be quick —"

Both of them looked ready to leap through the crack into the door. "Professor, we've got some information for you," Harry said quickly. "We think it'll help you."

"Er — well — it's not terribly —" With the eye not peering through the crack in the door, Lockhart was looking back at his nearly-packed belongings. I always wondered why he let Harry and Ron in, when he could have simply claimed he was getting ready to fight the Monster of Slytherin. Of course, Harry had just boxed him in by saying he had important information for Lockhart. Perhaps he just couldn't pass up the chance it would actually be useful. "I mean — well — all right —"

He opened the door and they tumbled in, then stood staring at the stripped walls and filled trunks. In the meantime Lockhart, shutting the door behind them, realized there was still a large poster of himself on the door. He began taking it down.

"Are you going somewhere?" Harry asked, look around at the mess.

"Er, well, yes," Lockhart said. He began rolling up the poster he'd just taken down. "Urgent call — unavoidable — got to go —"

I was rather enjoying Lockhart's discomfort, but then, after dealing with his insufferable attitude for the past month it was nice to see him finally sweating. I still didn't want to call attention to myself, however.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and Ron blurted out, "What about my sister?"

"Well, as to that — most unfortunate —" Lockhart turned and began emptying a drawer, avoiding looking at them. _It would be most unfortunate if they found out you sent her there, and with Riddle's diary_, I thought grimly. Lockhart gave a little shrug and went on, "No one regrets more than I —"

"You're the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!" Harry cried. "You can't go now! Not with all the Dark stuff going on here!"

"Well — I must say —" Lockhart was muttering almost to himself now. "When I took the job — nothing in the job description — didn't expect —"

It finally hit them what he was doing. "You mean you're _running away_?" Harry's tone was utter disbelief. Of all the things he must've expected Lockhart to do, that was at the bottom of the list. "After all that stuff you did in your books —"

"Books can be misleading," Lockhart said, damning himself.

"You wrote them!" Harry shouted.

"My dear boy." Lockhart straightened up from the bag he was loading and looked at Harry directly. "Do use your common sense. My books wouldn't have sold half as well if people didn't think I'd done all those things. No one wants to read about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a village from werewolves. He'd look dreadful on the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch who banished the Badon Banshee had a harelip. I mean, come on —"

"So you've just been taking credit for what a bunch of other people have done?" Harry said, sounding aghast. _Yep_, I said to myself.

"Harry, Harry," Lockhart sounded disappointed, probably trying to make Harry feel bad, but it wasn't going to work with Hermione in the infirmary and Ginny down in the Chamber of Secrets. "It's not nearly as simple as that. There was work involved. I had to track these people down. Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they wouldn't remember doing it." Harry and Ron looked at each other, shocked.

"If there's one thing I pride myself on," Lockhart said confidently, "it's my Memory Charms. No, it's been a lot of work, Harry. It's not all book signings and publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have to be prepared for a long, hard slog."

He turned his back to them, slamming the lids on his trunks and surreptitiously reaching into the pocket where his wand was. The fake wand. I kept a clamp on my emotions, not knowing if he could sense them.

Turning, Lockhart pulled out his wand, showing it to the pair as if they should now be afraid. He probably hadn't noticed that Harry's wand hand was now hidden behind a fold of his robe. "Awfully sorry, boys," Lockhart drawled, "but I'll have to put a Memory Charm on you now. Can't have you blabbing my secrets all over the place. I'd never sell another book —"

Lockhart started to raise his wand, but Harry's whipped out from behind his robe and he bellowed, "_Expelliarmus_!" blasting Lockhart over his trunk and sending the wand high into the air. Even though I now felt the blast and pain from the fall, I remained limp as Lockhart lay stupidly on the floor, his legs up against his trunk, as Harry kicked it aside and pointed his wand down into Lockhart's face.

"Shouldn't have let Snape teach us that one!" he said, hotly, while Lockhart put his hands up in submission. Harry looked furious, which wasn't saying much for a twelve-year old, but Lockhart wasn't having any more.

"What d'you want me to do?" Lockhart nearly blubbered, staring at the wand pointed at his oh-so-pretty face, which wasn't so pretty now. "I don't know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There's nothing I can do."

"You're in luck," Harry said sardonically. Keeping his wand pointed directly at Lockhart's face, he forced the wizard to his feet, then gestured to include himself and Ron. "We think _we_ know where it is. _And_ what's inside it. Let's go."

Pushing Lockhart ahead of him (Ron had pulled out his wand as well), they walked to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, where Lockhart had been only hours ago. He was shaking now as they nudged him through the door and down to the end stall. Looking inside, they found Moaning Myrtle herself.

"Oh, it's you," she said sulkily, looking at us with a resentful air. "What do you want this time?"

"To ask you how you died," Harry said quietly.

Her entire demeanor perked up at once. I wonder how long it had been since anyone had talked to her about _her_, rather than the things she did for attention.

"Oooooh, it was dreadful," she said, with an odd look of excitement now on her pale features. "It happened right in here." She pointed at the stall she was in. "I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a _boy_ speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then —" She paused for emphasis on her big moment. "I _died_."

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Lockhart was staring at Myrtle, still shaking. "How?" Harry asked.

"No idea," Myrtle said, her voice now grown quiet. "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eye. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…" She smiled weirdly at Harry. "And then I came back again! I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses!"

Harry jerked a thumb behind him. "Where exactly did you see the eyes?" he asked.

"Somewhere there." Myrtle was pointing more or less to the sink in front of her toilet. Harry and Ron went over to it, while Lockhart backed away. He was still shaking, watching the two boys trying to figure out how Myrtle had seen the monster.

Harry and Ron went over every inch of the sink, from the pipes coming out of the wall to the very end of the water tap. Suddenly Harry pointed to the side of the tap: there was a squiggle there that might be the drawing of a snake. Harry reached out slowly and tried to turn the tap. Nothing happened.

"That tap's never worked," Myrtle said.

Lockhart was looking around now, back toward the door; probably estimating his chances of running for it, I guessed. I didn't remember if he tried or not, but I might have to risk tripping him up if so. He had slid backward a step, still shaking.

"Harry," Ron said suddenly. "Say something! Something in Parseltongue."

"But —" Harry started to protest, then shrugged and looked at the tap. He stared at it for several seconds then said, "Open."

Ron shook his head. "English."

Lockhart took another tentative step backwards, and I nearly tried to move and stop him. It was _hard_, not reacting to his movements, when my natural inclination was to move as well. Lockhart glanced behind himself again, at the door. Harry, Ron and Myrtle were all preoccupied…

There was a low, hissing noise, and Lockhart's gaze whirled back toward the sink. The noise was coming from Harry, but Lockhart's gaze was riveted on the tap, which had begun to glow brilliantly white and spin. A moment later, as I'd seen before, the sink slid downward and out of sight, revealing a large pipe, one a man could easily slide into.

"I'm going down there," Harry said, and Lockhart's shaking gaze focused on him.

"Me, too," Ron said a moment later. They both looked at Lockhart, who smiled weakly at them.

"Well, you hardly seem to need me," he said at last, sliding backward another step and reaching for the door knob. "I'll just —"

Both of them pointed their wands at him. "You can go first," Ron snarled at him, jerking his wand toward the open pipe. Lockhart, sensing he was powerless to resist, slunk forward.

"Boys," he whimpered feebly. "Boys, what good will it do?" But Harry came round behind Lockhart and, with his wand, urged him forward until he sat at the lip of the pipe, his legs dangling into it.

"I really don't think —" Lockhart tried to protest, but Ron gave him a push and we slid down into darkness.

It was sort of like a tube slide into hell. There were other pipes emptying into this one, I could see, but none were as large as the pipe we were sliding down. This was all very hard to tell, as Lockhart was covering his face and screaming as we slid deeper and deeper down. It seemed to go on forever, probably because I still had to keep myself completely limp lest Lockhart sense he wasn't in control of himself and try something really stupid. I doubt if he would have noticed, though, as preoccupied as he was with screaming in terror.

Finally the pipe leveled out and we shot out onto a stone floor. Lockhart had finally stopped screaming and was looking around fearfully, but also fascinated, perhaps, by what he was seeing. He got to his feet, watching as Harry and Ron emerged from the pipe. There was just enough light from the walls of the tunnel, probably bioluminescence of some sort, for us to see one another.

"We must be miles underground," Harry said, looking around.

"Under the lake, probably," Ron guessed.

Harry lit his wand and we proceeded down the tunnel, Ron prodding Lockhart ahead of him, both of them following Harry.

"Remember," Harry cautioned, "any sign of movement, close your eyes right away…"

Lockhart shut his eyes immediately, and I almost burst out laughing. We could hardly see anything and now he shuts his eyes! He jumped at the sound of a _crunch_ — it turned out to be Ron stepping on a rat's skull.

As we went round a bend, Ron croaked, "Harry — there's something up there —"

Lockhart peeked as well. There was something huge lying ahead, just barely visible by the light of Harry's wand. "Maybe it's asleep," Harry said, and Lockhart shut his eyes tightly again. I could hear Harry moving forward slowly, his footfalls making splashes in the slimy water in the tunnel. Lockhart brought his hands up before his face, peering through his fingers. Harry's wand was illuminating a giant snake skin, a vivid, sickly green one that must have been twenty feet or more long.

"Blimey," Ron said, sounding daunted.

Lockhart was breathing harder; it felt like he was planning something. This must be the moment he jumped Ron. He staggered, putting a hand against the tunnel wall as he fell to one knee — playing possum, I surmised.

Ron walked over to Lockhart and pointed his wand. "Get up," he said, his voice sharp and unsympathetic. Lockhart nodded weakly, but as he stood he leaped at Ron, knocking him to the ground and wrenching the wand from his hand.

He backed away a bit, and Ron quickly scrambled to his feet. I could feel the smile now splitting Lockhart's face. "The adventure ends here, boys!" he crowed. "I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body —" I saw Ron wince at this, though Lockhart was too pleased with his own cleverness to see beyond his nose. "Say goodbye to your memories!"

He raised his right hand high over his head, and as he started to shout "_Obliviate_!" I jammed his left hand into the pocket where his real wand was, mentally shouting "_Protego_!" once again. It had worked once before — I hoped it would again.

Ron's wand exploded. Actually, it seemed to vaporize in a flash of light, shooting a bolt of energy into the roof of the tunnel, shattering it. Ron dodged one way, Harry another, and Lockhart's body was flung backwards. The last thing I heard was the sound of great chunks of stone falling as I blacked out…

When I came to, Ron was laboriously moving chunks of stone from the great pile that had filled up the tunnel. I sat up and tentatively flexed the fingers of both hands. They both worked, though I could feel a burn across the palm of my right hand, where Lockhart had held Ron's wand.

"Oh — you're awake." Ron was looking at me with some displeasure. I could just make out his face in the dim light given off by the walls. "Are you alright?" he asked, in spite of himself.

"Where am I?" I asked, playing Lockhart. "_Who_ am I, for that matter?"

"Don't worry about it," Ron said sourly, going back to tossing chunks of rock from the pile in front of us.

I relaxed, letting my mind go blank, but suddenly looked around, saying "What is this place?" Lockhart was awake as well, apparently. He looked at Ron. "Do you live here?"

"Blimey," Ron said, looking back at me. "Don't you _remember_?"

"I don't know," Lockhart said, sounding both curious and confused. He got to his feet, and I allowed the movement, curious myself to see what he'd do. "I remember waking up a few seconds ago, but that's all."

Ron sighed. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, then came up to me, pointing back down the tunnel the way we'd come. "Let's go down here a bit, and you can tell me what else you remember."

Lockhart had caught the full blast of his backfired Memory Charm. The _Protego_ Spell I'd cast at the last moment had shielded me, fortunately. After questioning Lockhart for a few minutes, and getting no answers from him, Ron left him sitting near the mouth of the pipe we'd first come out of.

"I'm going back to continue digging out a hole for when Harry and — and …" he didn't finish the sentence. He walked off into the darkness, and I heard rocks being heaved around a few moments later.

"Now what?" I said, then realized _I_ hadn't said it — it was Lockhart again. Apparently we could each control this body when the other person wasn't actively resisting.

"I don't know," I answered, speaking through his mouth.

"Who are _you_, now?" Lockhart asked. I snorted a moment's laughter at the idea of Lockhart, quite literally, talking to himself.

"I'm your conscience," I said. "I'm only in your head."

"Well, do you know who I am, then?" Lockhart asked. "That young fellow who brought me here didn't seem to know."

"Oh, he knows you," I said flatly. "You're Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Well, that's a fine name," Lockhart said brightly. "But it doesn't seem familiar."

Now that it was over, I felt too tired to argue, even with myself. I sat back against the wall of the tunnel and waited for Harry to return. I even fell asleep for a bit.

When I awoke, we were walking down a corridor following a large, strange bird glowing gold. _Must be Fawkes_, I thought sleepily. Ron was holding Ginny, who was crying, and Harry was carrying a silver sword. Harry led us up to a door I recognized as McGonagall's office, then knocked and we stepped inside.

There was a moment of stunned silence as Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked up in shock and saw the four of us (five if you counted Fawkes). Then Mrs. Weasley shrieked "_Ginny_!" and launched herself from her chair, hugging her only daughter tightly. Fawkes leapt onto Dumbledore's shoulder (which made an interesting sight, as he was much larger than an owl like Hedwig) and Mrs. Weasley grabbed both Harry and Ron in a tight embrace. Mr. Weasley was looking at Lockhart expectantly, but I gave no sign I recognized him.

"You saved her! You saved her!" Mrs. Weasley was crying with joy. "_How_ did you do it?"

"I think we'd all like to know that," McGonagall said, her hand clutching her chest.

Harry went through the whole story for them, leaving nothing out—not even the sneaking about he and Ron had done, including hiding in the wardrobe in the staff room. McGonagall's eyeglasses flashed as she realized they'd misled her a few times, but she said nothing. Finally, Dumbledore ordered Ginny to the hospital wing after her ordeal, and the Weasleys left with her. Dumbledore asked McGonagall to have the kitchen prepare a feast, and she left as well, leaving Ron and Harry (and Lockhart) with Dumbledore.

I'd said nothing through all this, and neither had Lockhart himself. Now Dumbledore turned to the two boys and said, diffidently, "I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules."

Ron's jaw dropped in horror.

Then Dumbledore shrugged and went on, airily, "Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words." He smiled at them. "You will both receive Special Awards for Services to the School and — let me see — yes, I think two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor."

While Ron and Harry both looked at each other, delighted, Dumbledore turned to Lockhart. "But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet about his part in this dangerous adventure," he noted. "Why so modest, Gilderoy?"

Harry jerked and looked around at me. At the same time, Lockhart was looking around to see who Dumbledore might be talking to.

Ron spoke up. "Professor Dumbledore, there was an accident down in the Chamber of Secrets. Professor Lockhart —"

"Am I a professor?" Lockhart himself spoke up. "Goodness, I expect I was hopeless, was I?"

Ron turned to Dumbledore and said quietly, "He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand backfired."

"Dear me," Dumbledore said, shaking his head sadly. "Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy?" he asked.

"Sword?" Lockhart said, sounding confused. "Haven't got a sword. That boy has, though." Harry was still holding Gryffindor's sword. "He'll lend you one."

"Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the infirmary, too?" Dumbledore said to Ron. "I'd like a few more words with Harry…"

Ron nodded and I walked toward the door without being asked. "Come on," he said, and took my sleeve, pulling me gently along toward the hospital wing. I had no reason to protest. I could use a good lie down…


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

In the infirmary, I had my old bed back, near Madam Pomfrey's office. The rest of the beds were now empty except for one at the opposite end of the room, where Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were talking quietly. Ron handed me over to Madam Pomfrey, then walked over to join them. Pomfrey examined me perfunctorily but didn't say anything. I wondered if she found the same problem with me as before.

"I want you to drink this," she said finally, handing me a cup of hot chocolate, "then rest for a while. I'll be back later to see how you are."

I nodded, sipping at the hot, delicious liquid, as she brought more cups of chocolate to the Weasleys. I wasn't entirely convinced that chocolate was the restorative she and Remus Lupin believed it to be, but it tasted good nonetheless.

I'd nearly finished the cup when Mr. Weasley walked over. "Lockhart, I'd like a word," he began flatly. He didn't look very happy, but at least he hadn't torn into me the way some men might have, if they'd known what Lockhart had done to their daughter.

The real Lockhart answered. "Hello there. Do I know you?" He nodded back toward where Ron was, talking with his mother and sister. "That boy tells me I'm Gilderoy Lockhart. Do you know him?"

Arthur sighed. "I thought I did once, yes. I suppose Ron is right, though. There's not much to do with you now but see that you get the help you need."

"I certainly hope so," Lockhart said, sipping absently at the hot chocolate we were holding. "It appears I can use it."

Arthur nodded, looking both sad and relieved, and moved away. I sighed, worried that I might be turned over to the authorities at St. Mungo's before I had a chance to talk with Dumbledore. This kind of existence, stuck inside a body fighting for control over it with a vain, half-mad amnesiac would be worse than being Imperiused! The Ministry would certainly decide Lockhart was a danger to himself and others — I would be stuck in St. Mungo's for years!

Suddenly I — or rather, Lockhart — yawned hugely, then sat the now-empty cup of chocolate down on a nearby table and stretched out on the bed. I didn't fight this; it seemed Lockhart was tired and trying to sleep. I lay there for some time, listening to Lockhart's breathing becoming more regular. Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey bustled around, removing the cups of chocolate from my and Ginny's tables and speaking softly to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They nodded and left, taking Ginny and Ron with them, leaving me alone in the hospital wing.

After a while I sat up again, unable to sleep, even though Lockhart seemed to be slumbering peacefully. I still needed to find a way home. Assuming I could even get home now, close to a year after I'd arrived here. I reached absently in my left pocket, touching Lockhart's wand. I took it out and looked at it, just studying it. It had been some time since I considered the fact that I had been doing magic for almost a year now. If I went back to my own reality, I knew, I would never do magic again. I held the wand in my right hand; it felt familiar there, in a way; natural to me.

But of course it was also strange and unnatural, a unique and heady feeling, to be able to do these things with just a magical phrase and a gesture. I didn't really know what I wanted, except that I knew I wanted things to be normal again. Whatever being normal meant. Putting the wand back into my robe pocket, I rested my head on my hand, my eyes closed, trying to figure out what to do next.

I don't know if I dozed off sitting that way, but after a while there was a motion nearby and I started slightly, surprised to find Professor Dumbledore sitting in a chair next to my bed.

"Good morning," he said quietly. He reached over and touched a nearby candle on the night stand next to my bed, lighting it, and we now had enough light to see one another clearly. "There's a feast going on in the Great Hall. I thought I would see if perhaps you would like to attend."

I shook my head. "I don't think Gilderoy Lockhart would much enjoy it," I said. "I wonder if there's anybody left in the school who likes him at all anymore."

"Perhaps one or two," Dumbledore smiled. "After all, Miss Granger did seem to have a schoolgirl crush for a while."

I laughed softly. "I'm sure Ron and Harry will relieve her of that once they tell her what went on tonight."

"Yes, I suppose so," Dumbledore agreed. "Perhaps we should discuss some things that have occurred recently as well." He reached into his robe and brought out the envelope I'd given him some months ago, the one with the names _Penelope Clearwater_ and _Hermione Granger_ written on the sheet inside.

"Before I left Hogwarts a few weeks ago, I opened this envelope after Miss Clearwater and Miss Granger were admitted to the hospital wing. You may imagine my surprise when I found their names inside.

"Do you remember giving me this?" Dumbledore asked, holding it up and watching me carefully.

"Yes, I remember it," I said. I quickly related the circumstances behind the explosion of Ron's wand, then related how I'd come to find myself sharing Lockhart's body with him. Dumbledore found it all quite fascinating.

"I believe this is the first case I've seen where two separate minds simultaneously control the same brain," he said. "Lockhart believed himself to have been trapped _inside_ the dementor that attacked you during Christmas?"

I nodded. "From what he told me, a dementor attacked him one morning in his room. I've guessed it was the same morning I found myself in his body."

Dumbledore's expression had gone serious. "This is disconcerting, if true. After your own encounter with the dementor, I began investigating why such a creature would have left the island where Azkaban is located, where they are kept to use as guards, to travel to London.

"The Ministry of Magic normally maintains enchantments on dementors that require them to remain near the island where Azkaban is located, and controls their breeding. Finding one so far out of bounds, attacking a wizard, implies that it either somehow broke free of Ministry control… or that it did _not_."

"Meaning," I said, "someone in the Ministry may have sent it after me."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

I remembered the squat, hooded figure who'd been in my home and who'd attacked me after the dementor fled. There was no doubt in my mind it had been Dolores Umbridge — she was apparently an old hand at ordering dementors around. Until I saw more of a connection between her and other Death Eaters, however, I didn't want to tie the Ministry in with all this. There was still the usual suspects to deal with.

"Could this have something to do with Lucius Malfoy?" I asked.

The headmaster raised his eyebrows slightly. "By an interesting coincidence, Lucius did visit me tonight. He was concerned that my return to the school was a breach of the order or suspension — which, I also recall, you correctly predicted, by the way."

"That visit didn't turn out too well for him, did it?" I grinned.

"It did not," Dumbledore agreed. "Several governors wrote me when Miss Weasley disappeared, asking for my immediate return to Hogwarts to handle the situation; many of them indicated that Lucius had threatened to curse their families — also as you predicted — but that they could no longer remain silent."

"And Harry tricked Malfoy into freeing Dobby, his family's house-elf," I added.

Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, he did, in a rather clever and inventive manner, if I do say so."

"By putting his sock in the diary and handing it to Malfoy, who then handed it to Dobby," I said, recalling.

Dumbledore blinked. "Actually, Harry said he put the book inside his sock, and when Lucius removed it and threw it away, Dobby caught it, fulfilling the requirement of being given clothing by his master in order to obtain freedom. But that was an excellent guess, Gilderoy."

"Not really a guess," I said, shrugging. "I misremembered — it was in the movie where Harry put the sock in the diary, not the novel."

Dumbledore was silent for some time. "Quite curious," he finally said. "I have been rather — well, _reluctant_ is probably the best word — to believe your story of coming from another universe, Gilderoy —"

"Actually, my name is John."

"— John, then," Dumbledore accepted my name change without hesitation. "But the evidence seems to bear out your knowledge of events that have occurred as you've said they would.

"I find this both enlightening, and daunting," he continued, piquing my interest (and my concern). "It is enlightening in that I find, at last, some basis for Seeing future events. This has concerned me, due to certain…predictions made about Harry and another wizard —"

"Voldemort," I put in quietly, "and the prediction Professor Trelawney made about them." Dumbledore nodded, smiling.

"Yes, Voldemort," he agreed. "I do find it interesting that you do not even hesitate to say his name."

"Like I said before, he's nothing but a fictional character to me." I waved a hand to indicate everything around me. "At least, he _was_, until I found myself here nearly a year ago now."

"What will you do, John," he asked candidly, "if a way home cannot be found for you?"

"I don't know," I replied, honestly. "I can't remain in here —" I pointed to Lockhart's head. "Lockhart spends the next several years in St. Mungo's, recuperating. "His ultimate fate was never mentioned in the books."

"I see…" Dumbledore looked at me for some time, pondering something. "John, I would like to ask you a question." He seemed to be struggling whether to ask it or not.

"I'll answer if I can," I told him.

"Does Harry survive the war with Voldemort?" he finally blurted out.

"Yes," I answered at once. "He will not only survive, he will prosper afterwards. Voldemort does not survive."

The old man slumped, looking vastly relieved. "It pleases me greatly to hear that," he said quietly, sitting erect again. "I was afraid I would not survive long enough to know that." I looked up then, staring directly into his eyes —

"Ah," he said a few moments later, a wry smile flitting across his lips. "The best-laid plans…"

I looked away, almost embarrassed. "I probably should not have let that slip, even mentally," I murmured.

"My lips are sealed," Dumbledore tapped them lightly. "In any event," he said, getting to his feet. "Tomorrow we shall begin searching for a way to get you home."

"I would like that, very much," I said earnestly. "I just wish I knew where to begin."

"As with any journey," Dumbledore said. "At the beginning." With a nod, he turned and walked from the room.

***

I had one other visitor that morning before I left the hospital wing. I awoke about 8:30 to find a breakfast tray on the night stand beside me with some scrambled eggs, toast and pumpkin juice on it. Not feeling particularly hungry yet that morning, I was nibbling at the toast and sipping on the pumpkin juice when Hermione came into the room.

I smiled vaguely at her, wondering what she wanted, and trying not to look as if I recognized her. She marched over and stood before me as I sat on the edge of my hospital bed. "God morning," she said, looking solemn.

"Good morning," I said around a last bite of toast. "Do we know each other?" I asked.

"I thought I knew you," she said, looking rather hurt. "Ron and Harry told me what you did. How could you try to hurt them? And all those people whose memories you erased! It's monstrous!" she cried.

I opened my mouth — then closed it again, because Lockhart had just awakened, it seemed, and was trying to speak; I didn't care to hear any deranged babbling from my mouth this morning.

I tried to say something to her, but it was almost impossible trying to speak around Lockhart's confused ramblings. "I — I d-don't know w-what to tell y-yeeou," I stuttered. "I'm, I'm s-sorry."

She stood there for several seconds, trembling, then shook her head and ran from the room. I stared after her for a bit, unhappy with the way things had been left between us (although I don't know I might have said to make her feel any better; Lockhart had royally mucked up and had been ready to let Ginny die and turn Ron and Harry into amnesiacs just to keep his book sales up). "You're beginning to get on my nerves, you know," I muttered, for Lockhart's benefit.

"Sorry, sorry," Lockhart replied cheerfully. "Just wanted to get something to eat — I'm starving."

Before I could retort, the infirmary door opened again; this time it was Professor McGonagall, with instructions to bring me to Dumbledore's office. I followed the professor, rather jerkily as Lockhart kept wanting to wander off in random directions, to the corridor where the entrance to the Headmaster's office was, behind the stone gargoyle.

"Raspberry tart," McGonagall said, giving the password, and the gargoyle leapt aside, allowing us access to the ascending spiral staircase. McGonagall held my arm to steady me as we rode the moving stairs. She knocked gently on the polished wooden door.

"Come in," Dumbledore's voice answered.

"Here he is, Albus," McGonagall said as she moved me toward a chair and had me sit down. "I don't see what else you could ask him, however — his memory seems to be completely gone."

"I have a few details to cover with Gilderoy before he goes to St. Mungo's, Minerva," Dumbledore said. He was studying a small, silver gadget sitting on his desk, one of the several such unusual items sitting on several tall, spindly tables in his office. "Thank you for bringing him to my office. I'll make sure he's properly taken care of afterwards."

McGonagall nodded and left the office. Dumbledore turned to me, noticing the shaking of my head and hands: Lockhart was fidgety and I was having difficulty controlling my motions. "Before we have a proper discussion, John, I think it will be best to make Gilderoy more comfortable. And, more importantly, less distracting to our conversation."

I nodded jerkily in agreement. Dumbledore took out his wand and gave a short wave in my direction. My body went limp.

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said. "That won't do. Well, let us see —" he waved the wand again. And again. And again.

"Very interesting," he said, suddenly very near. I looked around; Dumbledore was no longer sitting behind his desk, but was staring into my eyes from only a foot away.

"W-w-what's-s w-wrong?" I asked.

"Your and Gilderoy's minds are both tightly bound up within his brain," Dumbledore said, putting his wand away. "As I said before, this is a most unusual situation. Is there any mental communication between the two of you?"

"N-no," I shook my head.

Lockhart spoke up again. "Will it be lunch soon?"

I locked eyes with Dumbledore for a moment; he appeared to be almost amused by Lockhart's comments. I, on the other hand, was nearly driven to distraction. The headmaster took my arm gently and had me stand, then led me to where a large object was draped in a black curtain. Dumbledore took out his wand again and flicked it at the curtain, Vanishing it to reveal the Mirror of Erised.

"I found this in your quarters," Dumbledore said. "Imagine my surprise — I had thought it lost, or at least well-hidden." He positioned me in front of it. "What do you see now? Either of you, that is."

As before, I could now see my own reflection in the Mirror as well as Lockhart. He, seeing my reflection as well, nodded amiably. "We can see each other's reflections now," I said. "Can you hear me speaking?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Most curious — this is not how the Mirror normally works."

"A very handsome fellow," Lockhart said, studying himself in the mirror. "It's a shame I can't remember more about him."

"Could it have anything to do with what you did to hide the Sorcerer's Stone in it last year?" I asked Dumbledore.

"Possibly," he said slowly, considering the idea. "It was a rather unique combination of spells, after all, that allowed the Stone to appear in Harry's pocket once he looked into the Mirror with the proper desire in mind. And afterwards, I directed Boddy to have it removed to someplace where even he would not be tempted by it again, so the spells were never removed afterwards."

"Some pudding might be nice, I think," Lockhart said, rubbing his stomach.

With a sudden inspiration, born of my memory of Lockhart's Imperius Curse on me for the past several months, I reached into my left pocket, where I had put Lockhart's wand last night before I fell asleep. My hand closed around the wand, and I said loudly, "_Quiesetus_!" the enchantment for the Bewitched Sleeping Spell. Lockhart's eyes widened in surprise, then rolled up into his head and it slumped onto his shoulder.

"Oh, bravo!" Dumbledore said, and actually applauded briefly. "That should keep Gilderoy out of our collective hair until suitable arrangements can be made."

I turned to look at Dumbledore, holding my hands out in front of me. They were no longer trembing—Lockhart was no longer fidgeting or trying to wander around, as he'd been since he awakened this morning. "That's one problem solved," I agreed. "I just wish it was the hardest one we have to deal with!"

Bidding me follow him, Dumbledore walked over to a large, black cabinet. Opening it, he exposed a shelf holding a shallow stone basin with runes and symbols carved around its edges. Within the basin was a silvery-white substance that danced and swirled unlike anything I'd ever seen before, looking both liquid and gaseous. It was Dumbledore's Pensieve, larger than the one I'd used in the Room of Requirement or in Lockhart's special room. Taking it from the black cabinet, Dumbledore placed it on his desk and stood facing me with an air of expectation about him.

"You recognize this, I presume?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes, your Pensieve," I replied. I had not told Dumbledore about either my time in the Room of Requirement or the special room in Lockhart's basement. "You'd like to review some of my memories, I take it?"

"I think that would be the most expedient course," Dumbledore nodded. "One is usually able to apprehend connections and links within one's recollections more clearly when using the Pensieve than with simple mental review.

"I think we should begin with the first memory you have of being here," he went on. "I can demonstrate the spell used to extract your thoughts —"

"I remember it," I said, reaching into my robe for the wand, then touching it lightly to my temple. "_Pensextraxi_," I said, concentrating on my memories of that morning, and a silvery tendril came away on the tip of my wand. Holding the wand over the Pensieve, I shook it gently and the silvery thought wafted into the swirling, ever-changing material.

"Now, we can examine your memories together, to see what they will reveal to us," Dumbledore said. "After you, John," he added politely, indicating the Pensieve. I leaned over the bowl until my face entered its swirling thoughts.

I felt my feet leave the floor of Dumbledore's office, falling forward through silvery mist into swirling darkness that seemed to spin me around and around (there was altogether too much spinning associated with magic, I thought distractedly!) until suddenly, I found myself at home. My _own_ home, back in my own reality.

I was standing in the hallway of my house, outside my bathroom. Inside the bathroom, dressed in a housecoat, was me, brushing my teeth — not my mind inside Gilderoy Lockhart's body — but _me_ — and I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me. I sensed Dumbledore landing in the hallway next to me.

"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured. "This is your home?"

I nodded mutely. In the bathroom, I finished brushing my teeth and put the electric toothbrush away. As I walked out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, Dumbledore peered interestedly at the electric toothbrush. "I'm not sure I've ever seen one of these before. A toothbrush that moves itself? Fascinating!"

"Yes, it's electric," I said absently, distracted as I watched me moving around the house, shutting down my computer for the night, turning off lights, and making sure doors were locked.

"This is what happened the night before I woke up in your world," I said to Dumbledore as we followed me into the bedroom. "I guess I pulled more of my memory than I thought."

"All the better," Dumbledore said. "This may provide a clue as to the reason why you woke up in Gilderoy Lockhart's body."

As if on cue, I pulled a book off of a bookshelf and stretched out on the bed to read for a bit. The book, I saw, was _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.

Dumbledore had seen it as well, and was looking at the cover of the book and reading some of the text over my shoulder. I had flipped near the end and was reading the page where Harry gives the book, stuffed in the sock, to Malfoy, who rips it off and throws it aside, then looks at the book, then Harry.

* * *

_"You'll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter," he said softly. "They were meddlesome fools, too."_

_He turned to go._

_"Come, Dobby. I said, come."_

_But Dobby didn't move. He was holding up Harry's disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure._

_"Master has given a sock," said the elf in wonderment. "Master gave it to Dobby."_

_"What's that?" spat Malfoy. "What did you say?"_

_"Got a sock," said Dobby in disbelief. "Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby — Dobby is free."_

_Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then he lunged at Harry._

"You've lost me my servant, boy!"

* * *

"I always wondered how he did that," Dumbledore said to himself. "Quite ingenious, really." Before we could read further, however, my other self laid down on the bed to continue reading that way, and Dumbledore joined me standing beside the bed, watching myself read.

"You were reading the story of Harry's second year at school the night you arrived in Gilderoy's room, then?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Appears so," I said. As I watched, my earlier self jumped around in the book — reading near the end then jumping forward to the middle or back toward the beginning. I was beginning to recall why.

"I was wondering whether there were any clues in the story about that book being a Horcrux," I said, remembering.

"Ahh," Dumbledore appeared even more fascinated by this. "You know, then, what a Horcrux is?"

"Yes," I replied.

"And you know how many Horcruxes Voldemort created?"

"Yes," I said again. "He made six."

"And you know what they are?"

I stopped watching myself read and looked at Dumbledore. His face was calm but I could see an intense curiosity in his expression. "Do you want me to tell you what they are?" I said, not without some irony in my voice. It almost felt as if I would create some kind of time-travel paradox if I did so, even though neither Dumbledore nor I had traveled forwards nor backwards in time to get here.

"It is tempting," Dumbledore admitted. "However, I have been investigating the matter in my spare time for several years now; it is almost something of a hobby." He gave a small, quirky smile. "Although not one I can share with many of my friends. None, actually. You are the first person I've even said the word 'Horcrux' in front of for many years."

"Snape?" I mentioned the name with none of the rancor I'd felt for him during the school year, either as myself or when I believed I was Lockhart. He did, after all, do as Dumbledore required of him, even knowing it would probably cost him his life. Which it did.

"Severus may know of them," Dumbledore replied with a small shrug. "After Tom left Hogwarts, I had all the books containing the information removed to my office, except for one that mentioned, but did not explain, them."

"As a litmus test for students, perhaps," I suggested. "To see who might be interested in such knowledge?"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "You are very astute. To date, only a handful of students have attempted to locate information on them."

"And what did you do with those students?"

"I gave it to them, of course," the old man replied. "I do not believe in withholding abstract knowledge from my students. Although," he added with a wink, "I am not adverse to making them work to find it."

There was a sudden buzzing sound: on the bed I had begun to snore. The Harry Potter book was draped across my chest; I had evidently fallen asleep while reading.

I looked around the room, but we were still in my old house back in my own reality. "How are we going to know when it happens?" I wondered aloud.

"There are different levels of sleep within the human mind, as you may know," Dumbledore said quietly. "In the deepest levels, most do not experience the passage of time."

"What happens if I dream?" I asked. At that moment the room began to go fuzzy, almost whiting out.

"We are about to find out, I think," Dumbledore said. The mist was so dense now I could hardly see him — nothing else was visible beyond the all-encompassing whiteness.

I strained hard to see where I and the bed had been. Suddenly a darker form appeared in the mist — I stepped back, startled, then relaxed as I saw it was only me. But I was dressed in the housecoat again — no wait, it wasn't my housecoat, but a robe, similar to the ones I'd seen in the Harry Potter movies. My face, when I finally saw it clearly, looked worried, apprehensive — as if I were afraid of something I didn't want to find.

"Do you remember this dream?" Dumbledore asked me.

"No." I shook my head. "But I've got the impression something bad is about to happen."

My dream-self continued look around intently, searching for something I knew not what. His attention was suddenly riveted upon something behind us, and Dumbledore and I turned to see what it was.

It was a dementor. But it wasn't a dementor as they were shown in the movies: dry, blackened corpse-like beings that floated wraithlike above us, but toweringly tall and hooded, with a grayish, scabby, withered-looking hand that glistened with slime. This was a dementor as both Harry and I had seen them, up close and personal: foul, slimy and disgusting, not the sanitized Hollywood version.

There was a low sound, and both Dumbledore and I inhaled sharply as we saw its source. The dementor was moving towards a large, luxurious-looking bed; under the covers was a slumbering Gilderoy Lockhart, his face handsome and peaceful in sleep. What had drawn our attention, however, was what — or rather, _who _— stood next to him upon the bed.

It was Dobby, the house-elf.

Dobby, his great round eyes made even wider by fear, was urgently shaking Lockhart's shoulder, even as he looked over his shoulder at the approaching dementor. It had almost reached him when Dobby suddenly cried out, leaping over Lockhart and off of the bed as the dementor stopped, hovering over Lockhart. It drew a long, rattling breath, and Lockhart shuddered in his sleep. Then I saw what was in his hands — what had been in _my_ hands, I now realized, when I awoke that morning. It was Riddle's diary.

Lockhart's eyes and mouth opened wide, but his scream of terror was frozen in his throat as the dementor drew near to his face and the hood fell back, revealing its skull-like, eyeless head, its slimy, gray, scabrous skin stretched taut over its skull, the formless mouth clamped over Lockhart's as it sucked the soul from his body .

Dumbledore and I both watched, horrified, as Lockhart's body shook soundlessly beneath the dementor's kiss, then went suddenly limp.

Satisfied, the dementor floated away from the bed. As it did so, the room seemed to come back into focus again. Dumbledore and I moved instinctively away from the creature, to the foot of Lockhart's bed, and watched as it waved an arm at the nearby window, opening it, and it fled into the pre-dawn morning light. Now, even in the memory, I suddenly felt better, more clear-headed, as if the dementor's departure was allowing me to be happy once again.

I saw I was now indeed in Lockhart's bedroom, just as I had found myself that morning almost a year ago. Riddle's open diary was still clutched in Lockhart's hand as Lockhart — I — moved sleepily. The book, pushed to the edge of the bed, began to fall, and Lockhart's hand reached for it instinctively, but too late. As it fell, I stepped to the side of the bed, to see what became of it. As it landed on the floor, a small, gnarled hand reached out from under the bed and grasped it, pulling it back underneath. There was a soft crack, and Dobby was gone.

On the bed I, in Lockhart's skin, began to stir. A hand touched my arm gently, and Dumbledore said, "I believe we can return now, John."

A few moments later Dumbledore and I were staring at each other over the shimmering, ever-shifting, silvery contents of his Pensieve. "What did that mean?" I asked him. "Why did Lockhart have the diary? I thought Lucius Malfoy had it!"

"A very reasonable question," Dumbledore agreed, returning my gaze solemnly. "I, too, might wonder why Lucius Malfoy's house-elf was in Gilderoy Lockhart's house trying to awaken him as that dementor drew near."

"How do we find out the answer to these questions?"

"I do not know, at the moment," Dumbledore said, not looking happy about it. "I will, however, begin making inquiries to find out.

"If I thought it would be possible to discuss this with Lucius, I would do so," Dumbledore said, placing the Pensieve back in the black cabinet and shutting the doors. "However, I do not expect he would be interested in answering my questions, seeing as how they involved a possession known to have belonged to Lord Voldemort, a crime under Ministry laws punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban." He returned to the chair behind his desk, seated himself, regarding me now over steepled fingers.

"I will therefore have several of the Hogwarts house-elves begin searching for Dobby," he continued, "who was last seen going to pursue a career as a 'house-elf-for-hire.'"

"How long will that take?"

"Only time will tell," Dumbledore said with the tiniest of shrugs. "Until then, John, you may avail yourself of our hospitality. I will inform Professor McGonagall that you will be allowed to stay in your quarters until after you and I have had several more — well, shall we call them 'exit interviews?'"

"I hope they will be," I said seriously. "I'd give my left arm to stay here, but not inside another man's skin. Especially not _this_ man's skin — not now."

"Let us hope we can get you back home as soon as possible, then," Dumbledore agreed, and I left his office, returning to my own quarters, which had been straightened up during my absence in the infirmary. We now knew _what_ had happened that night — what we needed to know now was — _how_.

Over the next few weeks Dumbledore and I made several more excursions into my memories. We observed Lucius Malfoy's attack of me outside the Leaky Cauldron, just after I'd moved all the gold from my several Gringotts vaults to a single new one, and given the key to Dumbledore (who still had it, of course).

We also viewed the second dementor attack, the one where Lockhart himself said he found his way back into his body. It was impossible to tell whether the dementor was the same one that had attacked Lockhart the day I arrived here, although that was the best explanation. I was careful not to include Umbridge's attack in the memories I showed him — there was still no use opening that can of worms just yet, I decided.

Finally, we reviewed my memories of Lockhart's attempt to Obliviate Harry and Ron in the tunnel leading to the Chamber of Secrets, and his being hoisted by his own petard as the spell backfired due to Ron's broken wand. Most of these reviews were so that Dumbledore had some understanding of what had gone on with me during the preceding year; we hoped that the information, along with whatever Dobby could tell us about Lucius Malfoy's plans during that time, would provide enough clues to find a way to reverse whatever magic had brought me here and return me home.

As we went into the third week of June, however, there was still no sign of Dobby, though Boddy and other Hogwarts house-elves had continued to seek him out. The day had finally come for students to return to King's Cross; I watched from the Astronomy Tower as they made their way down the road leading from the school, around the south end of the lake toward Hogsmeade station. I could just make out a few red-haired heads in the distance: three taller, one shorter, and I imagined that Harry and Hermione were two of the darker-haired students walking with the Weasleys.

I suppose if there was one thing I would regret about leaving here, it would be that I couldn't be a part of this magical life with Harry, Ron and Hermione, and the other Wizarding folk. How many people back in my reality would have changed places with me in a heartbeat, even considering the predicament I was in?

That didn't really bear thinking about, though. Lockhart was still in my head — I had no idea how long the Bewitched Sleep spell I'd cast on him would last, but I couldn't stay in his body forever, and yet, I didn't want to leave, either, until I was sure I had a place to go. Preferably home. I walked around the perimeter of the Tower, staring at first over the lake to the south, then the Forbidden Forest to the east, stretching out into the distance as far as I could see. I walked around to the north side, where I could see Hogsmeade and the surrounding Scottish countryside. To the west, nothing but more country. I turned and sat down, my back against the ramparts, letting my hat's wide brim shield me from the midday sun. The sun had warmed the stone walls of the tower ramparts, and it was oddly relaxing. A thought occurred to me and I glanced at the door leading back down into the castle, remembering that it would be here, several years hence, when Dumbledore, and Draco Malfoy would stand here, in the same place I was now, the Dark Mark glittering above them, and debate whether Draco would be able to kill the headmaster, while Harry watched and listened, frozen stiff and unseen under his Invisibility Cloak. Lethargy set in, and I leaned back, trying to let myself enjoy the warm and lazy day…

The next thing I knew, it had become darker. I stood, looking around. The sun was red on the horizon, casting long shadows. I had slept the day away, it seemed.

Leaving the Astronomy Tower, I began walking through the now-empty corridors back toward my quarters, but almost immediately found myself walking past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls the ballet. I stared at the bare wall opposite it, knowing what lay beyond and wanting to get inside the Room of Requirement once again, hoping it could solve my problem.

But try as I might, the door would not appear! I really wanted to get home, I felt; but my need must not yet be sufficient. Or perhaps, it was still too vague — I couldn't really think of _what_ I required, only that I wanted inside the room. Apparently that wasn't enough. I fled the corridor and returned to my quarters.

No sooner had I gotten there and sat down to think than the silence was broken by twin _cracks_: two elves, both shivering with trepidation, cowered in front of me. One, slightly larger than the other, was draped with a simple tablecloth I instantly recognized. The other elf, however… even though dressed in a cast-off pillowcase, he wore what I thought were boots but turned out to be several pairs of sockets, with another pair covering his ears and several hats perched upon his head between them.

"P-Professor Lockhart, sir," the slightly larger of them said, barely able to look at me. "Can — can you forgive Boddy for being absent for so long?"

Instead of answering (mostly because I was tired of being called Professor Lockhart) I asked, "Who is your friend, here?" I already had a strong suspicion who it was, though.

The smaller house-elf of the pair looked decidedly less fearful, now that I was looking at him directly. "Dobby," he said, answering directly. "Dobby, the free elf." There was an unusual expression on his face — almost like defiance.

"Oh, really?" I said, relieved. "Good! I need your help, Dobby."

"Dobby does not _want_ to help Professor Lockhart!" the house-elf cried, glaring at me with actual dislike.

"Why _not_?" I asked, surprised and upset by his outburst.

"Professor Lockhart is a bad man," Dobby said fiercely. "He tried to harm Harry Potter! Dobby will _never_ help Professor Lockhart! Never!"

_Great_, I thought to myself. _What do I do _now?


	18. Chapter 18

_**Author's Note**: This is the final chapter. Thanks for reading, review if you want. Reaction to the story has been a mixed bag, which I think means I'm doing something right — you can't please everyone, but you can at least please yourself, and I'm mostly happy with how this story turns out._

**Chapter Eighteen**

Boddy flinched. "Dobby _must_ help Professor Lockhart! Professor Dumbledore _commands_ it!"

"Professor Dumbledore does not command _Dobby_!" Dobby said, looking at both of us fiercely. "Dobby is _free_! And Professor Lockhart tried to hurt Harry Potter!"

"Dobby," I interjected, trying to stop them arguing and clear up the misunderstanding. "I was not myself at the time. There was a — a battle, going on inside me when Harry and his friend figured out the where the Chamber of Secrets was.

"The good part of me wanted to help Harry and Ron, but the bad part of me wanted to make them forget everything so I could have all the credit for stopping the monster.

"_But_," I added, "_you_ were also trying to hurt Harry as well. There's no use denying it," I went on, as Dobby tried to protest once again that his intention was only to scare Harry away from Hogwarts. "Sending a Bludger after him could have seriously harmed him."

"Professor Lockhart harmed Harry Potter as well!" Dobby insisted shrilly. "Professor Lockhart took all the bones out of Harry Potter's arm!"

"I see you remember _that_," I said dryly, "but forgot that it was _your_ Bludger that broke his arm in the first place. And in the second place," I added, "Snape Confunded me."

To my surprise, Dobby cast his eyes downward. "It — it was not Professor Snape who Confunded Professor Lockhart," he admitted. "Dobby did that, too."

"_You_?" I was flabbergasted at this revelation. "Why would you stop me from helping Harry!"

"Harry Potter was afraid of Professor Lockhart," Dobby mumbled into the pillowcase he was wearing. "Dobby only wanted to protect Harry Potter."

"As did I!" I said, more forcefully than I'd intended. Both elves stepped away from me, startled. I took a deep breath, calming myself, and continued, "Okay, okay, sorry… let's get to the important question here: Dobby, can you tell me why you were in my room the morning the dementor attacked me?"

"Even though Dobby is free," the little house-elf began, hesitantly, "it is difficult to speak ill of Dobby's former masters, the Malfoys. There was —" Dobby clapped a hand over his mouth, but reached up with his other hand and jerked it away. "There was a — a plot to — to discredit — to discredit…"

"Me?" I asked. "Harry? Dumbledore?"

"Arthur Weasley," Dobby finally blurted out.

"_Arthur Weasley_?" I said, astounded. "Why the hell would Malfoy try to discredit _him_?"

"Arthur helped to write a law to protect non-Wizarding folk," a new voice replied, and the three of us turned to see Dumbledore standing at the door to my quarters. "I believe Malfoy placed the diary with Ginny Weasley's other books, hoping Riddle's memories would be able to cause enough of a disturbance here that we would be forced to close the school. He was very nearly correct, too.

"Forgive the intrusion," Dumbledore continued, with a slight bow, "but I was on my way to find a toilet and happened to overhear your conversation. But this is indeed a pleasant surprise," he went on, nodding at the house-elves. "I was just hoping Dobby would turn up soon, and here I find him! Quite serendipitous, I must say."

Dumbledore walked into the room, his robes flowing behind him, and stopped so that Dobby and Boddy were between the two of us. "But as to the point, Dobby," he continued, looking genially at the house-elf, who regarded him tremblingly, "you have not yet answered Professor Lockhart's question."

"No, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Dobby nodded respectfully. "It — it is — difficult, even now, for Dobby to speak ill of Master."

"Be that as it may, Dobby," Dumbledore said implacably. "It is very important you speak the truth."

Dobby nodded vigorously, his long ears bobbling. He addressed both Dumbledore and me. "Dobby had been ordered to go to Professor Lockhart's home, sirs, to retrieve the book."

"But _why_ would I have that book?" I asked, irritated. I didn't care for the implication that Lockhart was caught up in Dark magic, somehow. He was an opportunist, certainly, but I'd seen no indication that he was evil — at least, _not until his soul had come out of the dementor_, I realized suddenly. Not wanting to mention this in front of the house-elves, however, I said nothing.

"Master — ah, _former_ Master — brought it to Professor Lockhart the day before," Dobby said, looking at me quizzically. "Doesn't Professor Lockhart remember?"

"Humor us for the moment, Dobby," Dumbledore said mildly. "What can you tell us about that?"

Dobby once again looked scared. "Master — Lucius Malfoy — went to see Professor Lockhart, bringing the diary, and asked Professor Lockhart if he, as an expert on Dark Magic, would examine the book to see if it was tainted."

"And _was_ it tainted, Dobby?" Dumbledore asked plaintively.

Dobby looked back and forth between us, his homely brown face filled with anxiety. "It — it _was_, sirs!" Dobby threw himself onto the floor, sobbing. "Dark, horrible magic! Dobby — Dobby was afraid to even _touch_ it," he cried.

"What was the magic Malfoy put upon it, Dobby — do you remember?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes flashing with intensity.

"No, Professor Dumbledore, sir!" Dobby wailed. "Dobby saw M-Master and two other wizards casting the spell, but Dobby cannot remember the words!"

Dumbledore nodded. "We can remedy that easily enough," he said. "Follow me, please," and we swept from the room behind him.

A few corridors away Dumbledore stopped suddenly, looking back at me. "Oh dear," he said to me, looking a bit discomfited. "I had intended to use your toilet. Well, no matter, there's one where we're going," he shrugged, and we continued on to the corridor where the gargoyle stood, guarding the entrance to his office.

"Butter rum cake," Dumbledore said, and the gargoyle leapt aside. On the moving staircase, Dumbledore turned to Dobby. "I have been meaning to speak to you about your plans now that you're free, Dobby."

"Dobby doesn't know what he will do now, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Dobby said apologetically. "Dobby has never been free before — it is most confusing."

"I expect it is," Dumbledore smiled. "Perhaps you should consider seeking employment." I noticed a look of horror come over Boddy's features. He stared from Dumbledore to Dobby, his mouth open. Neither of them appeared to notice.

"E-employment, sir?" Dobby squeaked uncertainly. They were now at the top of the spiral staircase, standing before the large, polished wooden door leading to Dumbledore's office. "Dobby doesn't understand the word 'employment.'"

"It is quite similar to the work you were doing before," Dumbledore explained, as he took out his wand and waved it at the door; I heard a loud _clack_ that must've been the locks. "The only difference is, as an employee you have certain rights, and you receive wages in return for your work."

"W-wages?" Dobby repeated dubiously.

"Yes, payment for your time of employment," the headmaster said. "We can discuss it later, perhaps. But first —" he said, taking the Pensieve from its cabinet and placing it once again on his desk. "— let us get on to your remembering what happened the night Lucius Malfoy enchanted the diary."

Dumbledore turned to Dobby, wand in hand, and the house-elf looked at it apprehensively. "Do not be concerned, Dobby," the old wizard said gently. "You will feel nothing. Just concentrate on the memory of Lucius and the other wizards, and the diary. I will do the rest."

Dobby nodded and closed his eyes. Dumbledore's wand moved through the air, touching the house-elf's temple, and from it withdrew a long, wispy strand of thought, though golden-hued instead of silver. The strand twisted and spun, looking almost electric, like golden lightning, until Dumbledore released it gently over the Pensieve, where it mixed with the silvery thoughts therein.

"There should be no difficulty in finding those thoughts," Dumbledore murmured. He turned to the two house-elves, who were watching him, a mixture of admiration and fear on their faces, smiled and pointed to two nearby chairs. "Professor Lockhart and I will examine your memories and return shortly, Dobby. In the meantime, you and Boddy please have a seat and wait for us."

Dobby and Boddy looked back at the chairs, then at each other, then at Professor Dumbledore. They both bowed very low, then climbed up into their chairs whispering to each other.

"Are you ready?" Dumbledore asked me, gesturing to the other side of the Pensieve. I took my place, then we each moved our faces into the bowl until they touched the swirling liquid once again.

We landed, moments later, in near darkness. The light of dim candles flickered around us. I looked around; we were in a small stone room. The candles were floating in the air, as in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but this place was nowhere near Hogwarts, I knew.

In the center of the room stood three men gathered together over something one of them was holding in their midst. Stepping closer, I saw it was a small, black book: Riddle's diary. A few feet beyond them stood Dobby, trembling, watching the men with abject terror on his face.

I recognized one of the men immediately: it was Lucius Malfoy, holding the diary between the three of them.

"But can you _guarantee_ it, Rosier?" Malfoy asked, his voice tense.

"I have been studying the Dark Arts with the Dark Lord since the beginning," the man Malfoy had addressed, a dark-haired man with a goatee, replied haughtily. "I have researched an alteration to the Possession Charm which, when properly applied, _will_ allow the Dark Lord's memories to displace those of the first person to touch the book.

"I have tested the spell myself," Rosier continued. "By placing several of my memories into an object, and then applying this spell. When I tested the spell on a Muggle, my memories were transferred to it."

"You used a Muggle?" Malfoy said, sharply. "Can he be traced back to us?"

"No," Rosier said with a nasty grin. "He was a derelict, homeless. He won't be missed — I disposed of him afterwards."

I blanched. _Such callous disregard for human life_! I thought, anger blazing up within me. Beside me, I heard Dumbledore sigh heavily as he listened to Rosier's casual dismissal of a human mind and life.

"We should be more careful," the third man pointed out. "Curse only a page, not the entire book. Then anyone can touch it, but only someone who opens the book to read it will be cursed."

"Clever," Malfoy said, not sounding impressed. "But will doing that diminish the effectiveness of the spell? Rosier?"

Rosier shook his head. "The spell will still take effect — the only question is how he touches it. A light touch may diminish its power. Still, it could arouse suspicion if you seem leery of touching it yourself, Malfoy."

"With _that_ fool?" Malfoy sneered. "He will be too busy talking about himself to notice what I am doing. However, I prefer being able to hand it to him directly. We will apply the spell to the third page of the book." The other two men nodded in agreement.

As we watched, each of them took a corner of the book and produced their wands, touching the third page. "We must speak the phrase in unison, three times," Rosier said, looking at the others, "so our wands will not interfere with the others. You each have it memorized? Jugson?"

"Yes," the last man replied, the tallest of the three, with long, dark hair. "I have it."

"Do not pause or break the rhythm between each phrase," Rosier continued. "We will begin on the count of three. One — two — _three_!"

Each man began speaking the phrase. I strained to catch it, but the words made no sense. They were like nothing I'd ever heard before. I glanced at Dumbledore; he was listening to them intently as well, his expression one of deep concentration.

In the book, the affected page had begun to glow, pulsing brighter with each word the three men spoke. As they spoke the last syllable of the phrase for the third time, there was a flash of light, and each man was thrown backwards, landing on the floor. The book fell to the floor of the room as well, lying between them; its cover had flown shut.

They each rose slowly, looking pained but jubilant. "It worked!" Rosier said exultantly. "I'd stake my life on it!"

"That may be the case," Malfoy said coldly. "I will go to see him tomorrow, to ask for his 'help.' The gullible fool, vain as he is, and fancying himself a defender against Dark magic, will leap at the chance to examine it." He picked the book up and thrust it toward Dobby. "You will protect this until tomorrow. See that you touch nothing but the cover."

Dobby, inching forward, took the book from Malfoy's hand and backed quickly away. The scene faded out, changing to Lockhart's North London home, where Malfoy and Lockhart stood in the front room.

"I appreciate anything you can do with it, Gilderoy," Malfoy said, sounding much more deferential and passive than his normal self. "It has been in my family for many years, but the possibility that it has Dark magic associated with it has only recently surfced."

Lockhart, a smarmy smile plastered across his face, took the book from Malfoy and gave it a knowing look.

"Never fear, Lucius," he said confidently. "Whatever is going on with this book, Gilderoy Lockhart will ferret it out for you. I had something like this come up just recently, as I described in my latest book, _Magical Me_. There was a —"

"Forgive me, Gilderoy," Malfoy interrupted smoothly, "but I stopped by on my way to an appointment at the Ministry of Magic. Mustn't keep Cornelius Fudge waiting, you understand."

"Righto," Lockhart said, winking as he slapped a hand down on the diary's cover. I'll get back to you as soon as I can on this, I have an interview to do in a couple of days — oh, have you heard?" Lockhart looked positively gleeful. "I'm talking to Albus Dumbledore about a position at Hogwarts!"

"Are you?" Malfoy said, sounding surprised. "Interesting! I hope it works out for you."

"He put Gilderoy's name in for consideration," Dumbledore murmured beside me. "He certainly knew of the interview."

"So they planned to do this to Lockhart, then," I said angrily. "But how does the dementor fit into it?"

"I do not know. But listen —" Dumbledore pointed back to Dobby's memory; Lockhart was striding from the room.

"Mrs. Witherhams will see you out, Lucius." Witherhams escorted Malfoy and Dobby to the door. Malfoy swept through it, followed closely by Dobby. As Mrs. Witherhams began to shut the door, though, Malfoy stopped it with his cane.

"Let me know the moment he tries to examine the book," Malfoy told her in a low voice. "Just write '_Done'_ if it worked — don't bother with anything longer. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow, regardless." Malfoy turned and strode away, with Dobby hot on his heels.

The scene faded out again, resolving itself into Malfoy's study, where Lucius sat at his desk. The room was elaborately decorated, I noticed — quite in keeping the description of Malfoy's home in the final book. The door to the study opened suddenly and Dobby raced into the room, carrying a small roll of parchment.

"Master," he cried in a squeaky, scared voice. "An owl brought this for you!" He held the note up toward Malfoy, who waved a lazy hand at him, saying, "Read it."

Looking askance at his master as he opened the note, Dobby's already large eyes widened as he saw what the message said. A pinched expression came over his face, dreading the pain that would surely come from this news.

"Well?" Malfoy snapped, looking away from his work to see what the holdup was. "Get on with it!"

Opening the letter as slowly as possible, Dobby finally began to read:

* * *

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_I found Gilderoy unconscious on his bed last night, the book still in his hand, but we awoke there was no change in his personality. He thinks he simply fell asleep._

_I thought you would want to know this, so I sent this letter as soon as I was able. I will await your instructions._

_Mrs. Witherhams_

* * *

Dobby stopped reading, looking at Malfoy with a frightened expression. Malfoy snatched the letter from him, reading it wordlessly, then suddenly turned and aimed a kick at the house-elf, who cried out in pain as his small body slammed into the leg of a chair.

"Damn it!" he swore. "It failed! Rosier was so sure it would work!" He looked down at Dobby, who was still lying on the floor, half-stunned. "Don't just lie there whimpering," he snapped. "Fetch my traveling cloak — we are going to see — wait —" He stopped, appearing to think rapidly.

"I have a better idea." Malfoy returned to his desk, unlocking a drawer and removing a pouch that clinked with metal, placing it in his robes as Dobby retrieved his cloak and handed it to his master.

"You will remain here, Dobby," Malfoy said. "I have business with someone who will want to keep this transaction strictly between the two of us." I nodded to myself, realizing this must be when Malfoy hired Umbridge to send the dementor after me. Whether she was unsure of her control, or simply wanting to see what was in my house after I and my housekeeper were out of the way, she'd gotten more than she bargained for there.

"But I will have a task for you later tonight," Malfoy was saying to the house-elf, who was rubbing his shoulder, where it had slammed against the chair-leg. As Dobby watched, shuddering, Malfoy swept from the room.

"Why do you think the spell didn't work?" I asked Dumbledore, but he shook his head, pointing to the changing scene before us. We were back in Lockhart's bedroom again and Lockhart, dressed in a bright blue nightgown and cap, paced up and down the floor of his bedroom, looking through the pages of the blank book.

"Why would someone curse a _blank book_?" Lockhart was muttering to himself. He was apparently trying to figure that out, because it took him a while of pacing and flipping before he finally tossed it onto his desk and crawled under the covers of his bed.

_And where is Dobby all this time_? I wondered, suddenly remembering we were looking at his memories. I finally spotted him, peering carefully out from under the wardrobe, waiting for — something, though I couldn't tell what, yet.

Soon, from the bed, we heard the sound of Lockhart snoring. Dobby crept out from under the bed, going over to the window. He pushed a chair in front of it, climbed up, unlocked the window and opened it, then went over to the desk and got the diary. Climbing carefully onto Lockhart's bed, he slid the book under the sleeping man's hand, then leapt silently down to the floor. For some time he stood at the foot of the bed, looking back and forth between it and the open window.

We could hear very soft muttering, and Dumbledore and I moved closer to hear what Dobby was saying. "Not right. Not right!" the little elf was saying, pulling his own ears painfully. "But _why_ has Master ordered Dobby to open the window? Surely _Master_ will not be coming here tonight!"

"He doesn't know what's going to happen," I said.

"Apparently not," Dumbledore concurred softly.

"But what can Dobby do?" the house-elf continued, muttering softly to himself. "Dobby must obey Master's orders — stay here until Gilderoy Lockhart awakens — then return with the book and report back to Master what has occurred." The little elf plopped himself down at the foot of the bed, leaning back against one of the corners, still muttering, but now too quietly for us to hear. He began to nod, and seemed to fall asleep.

The light in the room changed, suddenly becoming darker. Dobby stirred and looked up, then began rubbing his bare arms vigorously. "Cold?" the house-elf squeaked softly, looking around? "Cold — too cold for July — Dobby must close the window —"

Pushing the chair back in front of the window, Dobby was reaching to close it when a gray, slimy, scabby hand reached for him through the window. Dobby squealed in terror and leaped back off the chair, then raced for the bed, climbing quickly up the side and running up beside Lockhart as the dementor glided through the window and righted itself. Dobby shook Lockhart's shoulder desperately.

"Gilderoy Lockhart! Gilderoy Lockhart!" he cried in his squeaky voice, but Lockhart barely stirred. When the dementor was nearly upon him, Dobby finally leaped over the edge of the bed. Lockhart's eyes and mouth opened in a soundless scream.

There was a touch on my arm, and I flinched, then turned toward Dumbledore. "I believe we know what happens from this point on," Dumbledore said softly. "Time for us to leave."

We returned to his office, where Dobby and Boddy were still seated, watching with fascination as we stepped back from the Pensieve and looked at the pair of them.

"Both of you have been very helpful today," Dumbledore told them. "And I commend you both for your bravery as well." Both elves smiled shyly, with gratitude, at the headmaster.

"Gilderoy and I must discuss what we've seen, but I may call upon you if we have further questions. Until then, please feel free to make yourself at home within the castle. Dobby, if I do not see you again before you leave, I hope you will consider taking a job here at Hogwarts."

Dobby slid off the chair, taking his three hats in hand. "Many thanks, Professor Dumbledore, sir, but Dobby wants to try and — "find employment" — with a Wizarding family first. Dobby has done that for many years and it seems most comfortable."

"Very well," Dumbledore said gently. Dobby disappeared with a _crack_.

Boddy, who was staring at the spot where Dobby had been with a look of disapproval, now looked at Dumbledore.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir, should I keep an eye on Dobby so's he doesn't get into more mischief while he's here?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I will call you if I need you, Boddy, thank you." Boddy bowed low and with a second _crack_ he was gone as well.

With both elves dismissed, Dumbledore offered me a chair, and we sat down to discuss what we'd seen. I started out with the question he'd avoided earlier. "Why did Malfoy's spell fail?" I asked again.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of himself. "I believe because Dorian Rosier — not to mention Voldemort himself — was too clever for his own good." Seeing my puzzled expression he continued, "The diary was a Horcrux, as you already know. Ironically, the original Possession Charm may have been more successful in moving the fragment of Voldemort's soul into Lockhart's body than Rosier's modified Possession spell was.

"But Dorian Rosier, bright as he was, never knew that Tom Riddle had created his first Horcrux while still at Hogwarts, when he was only sixteen years old. He believed, as Lucius evidently did, that Riddle had put only memories into the book. While his spell was brilliant — I shall have to do some research on it, if I have the opportunity — it could not transfer what was not there. The spell knocked Lockhart out, but nothing else; so when he appeared for breakfast the next morning, his housekeeper saw that he was still the same old Gilderoy Lockhart, and reported same to Malfoy."

"And where does that leave us?" I asked, a bit impatiently.

"A good deal better off than we were yesterday, actually," Dumbledore said brightly. "The spell Rosier created is a simple alteration of a standard Dark spell — it will simple enough to alter it to reverse the effects, and send you back from whence you came."

I heaved a deep sigh of relief. "I can't tell you how happy that makes me," I said gratefully. "I just hope my body back home is still intact — I'd hate to get back and find it languishing in a hospital or something."

Dumbledore paused, considering. "That is a valid concern," he said after a moment, now sounding less enthusiastic. "It has been nearly a year, has it not, since you came here?"

"On Harry's twelfth birthday," I said, tensely. "It'll be a year in just six more weeks or so."

"What would you say," Dumbledore quietly asked, "would be the chances that your body is in about the same condition it was nearly a year ago?"

I took a deep breath. "Slim to none," I said heavily.

"I must concur." Dumbledore looked most unhappy, even more so than I, if that was possible.

But if there's _anything_ that magic teaches you, I remembered, it's to think outside the box. "What if — what if we sent my soul back in time, to the moment when it originally left my body, as it was coming here," I said desperately. "Then it would be as if I'd never left at all!"

"That would require time travel, of course," Dumbledore pointed out. "We do not have the means to travel that far into the past."

"Yes we do!" I cried. "Your Time Turner!"

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore said, surprised.

"You have a Time Turner," I said, pointing a half-accusing finger at him. "Boddy and I — well, we used it once — or twice — maybe three times —"

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said. I smiled, in spite of myself; it seemed I was getting him to use that phrase quite a lot lately. "I'm afraid I no longer have it."

"_Why not_?" I practically shouted at him.

"Shortly after the fall term began," he recalled. "A wizard from the Department of Mysteries visited me and asked if I'd been using the Time Turner. Of course I assured him I had not. He then asked to take it back to the Ministry to examine it, and said there were signs it was malfunctioning, as the detection magic indicated it had been in operation several times.

"Of course, I gave permission. A cranky Time Turner is not something to be treated lightly." Dumbledore appeared almost relieved. "I do hope we will have it back by this fall; Miss Granger is scheduled to take several extra courses, and she will require the Time Turner to make that possible."

I had sagged into my chair upon hearing Dumbledore say he no longer had the Time Turner. "We need that Time Turner," I said weakly. "No other way to get back." I thought of something. "Can you cast a Time Travel Spell?" I asked, hopeful.

"There is no such spell, John. I'm sorry." Dumbledore patted my hand gently, comfortingly. "There, there… I will think of something — I usually do, actually."

"Great," I said bitterly. "I'll just wait around in the castle until you come up with something, then." I put my face in my hands. "I need to get home, Professor Dumbledore."

"I understand," Dumbledore said. His hand was still on mine, squeezing it gently, trying to reassure me. "I promise you, we will do whatever is required to get you home."

I nodded, saying nothing. Then — I looked at him, my eyes widening. "Professor! What about the _Room of Requirement_?"

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore asked politely. "The _what_ Room?"

"The Room of Requirement," I repeated excitedly. "I can't believe you've never heard of it! It's up on the seventh floor — it's a room that will provide anyone who really needs something whatever he desires."

"Intriguing," Dumbledore said, standing quickly. "I would like to see this room, yes. Where is it?"

"On the seventh floor," I repeated, standing as well. I was about to jump out of my skin, I was so excited. I was _sure_ this would be my way home at last! "It's in a corridor across from a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded knowingly. "I recall where that is. A pity no one ever gave poor Barnabas what he needed — more nimble trolls." We left Dumbledore's office, making our way to the seventh floor corridor where the tapestry in question hung. Dumbledore examined the blank wall opposite the tapestry.

"I've walked this corridor many times," he said. "But I've never had an inkling that anything was behind this wall."

"You have to concentrate on the thing you need," I said, pointing, "and walk past this section of the wall three times."

"Do you think," Dumbledore looked at me anxiously, "there will be a toilet inside when we get there?"

I blinked; I'd forgotten he'd had to go for some time now. Apparently, so had he. "If you really need one," I shrugged.

"I do indeed," Dumbledore said, shifting from one foot to the other. "If you would hurry, please, dear boy."

I walked back and forth along the corridor, thinking intensely, _I need to go back in time one year to get home_, over and over again. _Oh, and a place to go to the bathroom_, I added. On my third time past the wall, a door appeared. Dumbledore and I hurried through it.

Inside, we found a smallish room, not much larger than my bedroom back in the home in North London, containing a very large hourglass set on a horizontal pivot. On the wall nearby I saw the date:

20 June 1993

in printing etched into a golden plaque, and below that was a 24-hour clock with the time: 1:32 a.m. It had been nearly dusk when I'd returned to my room, hours ago, to find the house-elves there. We'd been at this for several hours now. I looked around the room, seeing rows of books and another wall filled with various timepieces.

But Dumbledore only had eyes for a door marked "Wizards" with the black silhouette of a warlock on it. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, hurrying through the door. I allowed myself a chuckle.

Come to think of it, I recalled, Dumbledore had told Harry of the time he needed to use the facilities and had found a room filled with chamber pots. Was this when that happened? I had always wondered why Dumbledore never mentioned the Room of Requirement beyond that one time.

Dumbledore emerged from the door, looking refreshed, and said, "That's quite a relief," with a contented sigh.

"Ha-ha," I said dryly. "Can we get on with this, please?"

"Certainly, dear boy." He examined the giant hourglass closely. "Based on the same principle as the Time Turner, it appears," he said at last. "One anticlockwise rotation of this wheel —" he pointed to a many-handled object that resembled an old sailing ship's steering wheel "— will take us back one year." He turned to look at me. "We must be careful to travel back to the correct date — in this case, July 31, 1992.

"Will you do the honors, John?" Dumbledore pointed to the steering wheel.

"Me?" I said, but I stepped up to the wheel without a further thought. I was willing to do whatever it took to get back home again, now that I was so close. "What do I do?"

"Release the lock on the wheel," Dumbledore pointed to a small ratchet lock on the side. "Then turn it anticlockwise — excuse me, that would be counterclockwise to you — until the date reads 31 July 1992. We will want to get as close to 4:30 a.m. as we can."

"Why is that?" I asked. I'd been reaching for the lock, but stopped upon hearing this.

"That is when the dementor attacked you," Dumbledore said. "We must not interfere with it, or with Dobby, lest we change the events of our past. Please begin."

I nodded and flipped off the lock on the wheel, then began turning it. The clock on the wall began madly spinning backwards, while the golden plaque started clicking off dates in the past. We progressed backward through the months: May — April — March — each one slipping away as the hourglass slowly spun upside down then began its ascent. November — October — September — August — I began slowing down as I neared the first week of August, to home in on July 31.

Now close to that date, I began nudging the wheel as carefully as I could. The time finally spun back past 4:30, to 4:21 a.m.

"Lock it down," Dumbledore said, and I snapped the ratchet back into place. "Perfect. We now have nine minutes to prepare for the journey."

"Journey?" I said, surprised. "Where?"

"To Gilderoy Lockhart's house, of course," he said simply. "That is where we must be to send your mind back through whatever passageway brought it here." He looked around for a moment, then picked up two pocket watches lying on a nearby table. "These should do nicely," he said, taking his wand from his robe.

He touched each watch with his wand, saying "_Portus_." Each watch trembled, glowing blue, then abruptly stopped. Dropping one of the watches and his wand back in his pocket, he handed the other one to me. "That is now a Portkey to your bedroom," he told me. "We shall be using that at precisely 4:30. Remember, it will glow blue a few moments before then, so keep it handy." I nodded.

"Before we leave," Dumbledore said, now looking serious. "I will put you under a Bewitched Sleep spell—I hope to minimize the effects of the Possession spell that way, which can be somewhat painful."

"Now he tells me," I said faintly. "But I'm good with it," I added gamely.

"That's the spirit!" Dumbledore cheered. "Now, is there anything else we should discuss in the next —" he glanced at the watch in my hand "— seven minutes, John?"

"Yes, I said, extending my hand. "Thank you," I said gratefully, as he took it and we shook hands warmly. "I don't think I stood a chance of getting back home without your help."

"In all modesty, I don't think so, either," Dumbledore smiled, and I chuckled. "I, in turn, appreciate all the things you've told me about the future.

"There is just one other thing I should mention," he added after a moment. "Your vault —"

"Oh hell," I said, remembering. "I forgot all about that thing!"

"I assure you, I have not," Dumbledore said seriously. "There are well over two million Galleons in it."

"You have the key," I said. "And your name is on it as well."

"I have no need for that money —" Dumbledore began.

"But the school can use it," I spoke over his objection. "Or, you can hold it for Lockhart, if he ever recovers his memories."

"As you wish," Dumbledore said, giving my hand a final shake.

"Now, as to the sequence of events," he said, his tone becoming businesslike. "I will place you under the Bewitched Sleep spell, then place a Disillusionment Charm on both of us. You will also have a Freezing Charm, to keep you upright while asleep. You will be holding the watch; at 4:30 it will take us to Gilderoy's bedroom where, if I have calculated correctly, the dementor and Dobby will each have just left. I will then reverse the effects of Rosier's altered Possession Charm, sending you back along the way you came into Lockhart's mind.

"Are you ready, John?"

I took a final deep breath, "I'm ready, Professor."

"Best of luck to you, dear boy." Dumbledore placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder, then tapped me three times on the top of the head with his wand. I felt a wave of sleepiness spread through me, followed hard upon by a stiffness that must be the Freezing Charm. At the same time, a cold sensation was spreading downward from my head, over my shoulders and along my sides, but growing fainter with every passing moment…

I was seeing lights passing me by, even though I had my eyes closed. There was a rushing of cold wind on my face; I turned my head to the side, but I couldn't avoid the coldness. Suddenly a bright light rushed past me, like a silent motorcycle with a brilliant headlight. I felt my hand across my face, shielding my eyes, and I opened them.

I was lying in bed, in my room, my _own_ room, back in Kansas once again. It was still dark outside. I sat up, reading the time off my electric clock. It was nearly time for me to get up for work.

It seemed like I had been dreaming; I remembered being Gilderoy Lockhart. "What a strange dream," I muttered. "Why would I want to be _him_?"

It wasn't until later that day, after I was at work, that I began to recall details of my dream. At first I thought I was merely coming up with ideas for a Harry Potter fan fiction story, but the detail and clarity of my memories began to astonish me.

I have set them down on paper, as faithfully as I can remember, so that other Harry Potter fans can read of my experiences as well. I hope they will be found interesting and informative. At least, I will never think as badly as I used to about Gilderoy Lockhart. He may not have been much of a character in the second Harry Potter novel, but he had a lot more to deal with than any of us ever realized.

**The End**


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